The Chorus Girl
by Veritasa
Summary: A chorus girl is saved by the Phantom, and forges a delicate relationship with him. As time passes their loyalties are tested and their ideals questioned as the world of the Opera swirls around them. COMPLETE. ErikOC. Precanon.
1. Entr'acte

May I have the honor of presenting a tale of Le Phantôme de l'Opéra , based upon the works of Messieurs Andrew Lloyd Weber and Joel Schumacher. The original tale was compiled by Monsieur Gaston Leroux in the early twentieth century, and only recently has this information been recovered and transposed into a narrative.

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"Please! Please, let me go! Stop it!" She dragged her feet, trying her best to make herself into dead weight, the term sending an involuntary shudder through her. Dead was definitely not a good thought at the moment. Her sobs wracked her entire body, gasps and breathing convulsions making her even more difficult to move forcefully, but her abductor didn't seem to notice. He just kept pulling her deeper into the vaults of L'Opera Populaire. She screamed as loudly as she could, but her tight throat would barely let the sound escape. It seemed the weak little effort was enough for him, for suddenly he turned and slapped her. His gloved hand moved to her chin, which he gripped roughly, forcing her to face him.

"Shut up, wench. No one can hear you down here, anyway. Save your energy." He grabbed her wrist again, pulling her deeper still. She was silent now, except for the dry sobs that she couldn't stop. She knew he was right. There was no one to hear her. The bright, loud world of the chorus wouldn't miss her for days, and the screams would be lost amidst their merriment. She turned back toward the way they had come, her life fading before her as quickly as the last of the lights.

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw it. Something had moved in front of the light, as covered in shadow as the caverns were. It was no rat; the cloak that trailed behind it told her that. What, who was down here? Was it an accomplice of the wretch that had her now? Was it someone who could help? Before she could answer the thought, her captor had spun her around again.

"Now, wench, let's have a little fun, eh?" He never let go of her wrist, but trailed his other hand down her throat to the neckline of her dress. She fell to her knees, her arm suspended awkwardly above her.

"No!" She protested weakly, all her strength having seemingly deserted her. He yanked her back up, and she looked away, hoping to find some solace in the darkness, something to distract her in the very least. The torch the man had lit on the wall illuminated only a small circle; the rest was shadow and stone. Except… She saw them then: eyes that burned her to look at, but she could not turn away. These eyes belonged to a man as surely as the hands on her body did. This second man was her only hope. She said nothing, hope deserting her as he turned back to the darkness. She let out a small cry, which her attacker took as a sign of fear of him.

"You're going to have a little pleasure before the pain, you little whore. You've been taunting me for weeks, so I'll sate you before I punish you. See how generous I am, you little slut!" His hand pulled violently on the fabric at her breast, ripping it from her. She let out a half scream, half groan as her shame and dread overcame her. She felt so heavy. She fell to the ground for lack of strength, and felt vaguely surprised when his hands didn't follow her down.

She turned her face upward into the brightness of the torch, and had to shield her eyes. She looked down again and saw the black fabric of a cloak next to the now trembling legs of her captor. Against the protestations of her eyes, she looked upward. She saw the passion in his eyes, though it was smoldering anger now. In one swift motion, he wrapped a rope around the man's neck and tightened it. She turned away, knowing full well what was happening. She heard the thud a few feet away and shuddered at the thought.

She spit into the darkness, trying to clear her mind of the horror and her mouth of the wretched taste of his boorish kisses. Her hands were wrapped tightly around her chest to hold the remains of the fabric in place. She was very much aware of the man still standing over her, unwavering in his compelling gaze.

She flinched when his laughter filled the small grotto. "Mademoiselle, this is certainly not the normal place to find a man and his fille de joie." His laugh was as cold as his look was fiery. "It is a more vulgar occupation that you would have guessed, judging by your reaction."

Her eyes met his fire as she turned on him. "I am a chorus girl," she shot back, her voice a quiet warning.

"Does L'Opera pay so little that chorus girls must become demimondaines to earn enough? Or is your lifestyle more than your wages can sustain?"

"I don't go to an opium den, if that's what you mean."

"Is that what I mean?" He was unused to being disputed, and it had thrown him momentarily off balance. Her vehemence was unwonted, and it disturbed him.

She cringed, sensing his anger, knowing that he could kill her as easily as he had her assailant. Fear was a sensation he was much more familiar with, and he smiled coldly again, giving her a peculiar solace.

A dank wind carried through the passage, chilling the air and reminding her of her state of undress. She shivered, and he felt a pang of remorse for provoking her, but it passed with the wind. Still, he could not leave her sit here half-naked now that she had seen him kill and heard his voice. Besides, she intrigued him, and she owed him a life-debt, something that the French townspeople took very seriously. Yes, she could be useful if the opportunity was cultivated properly.

He leaned over her, and she hung her head in resignation to the death she was sure was coming. Instead of a blow, his cloak descended upon her. "Cover yourself and follow me."

She thought of fleeing when he turned his back, but something in his voice wouldn't let her. Beyond that, her inquisitive nature prompted her to find out more about her mysterious savior. As she descended after his torch, the old adage that "the over curious are not over wise" echoed through her mind, but it was too late to turn back. She would be lost in the labyrinth passages that the sublevels of L'Opera Populaire consisted of. She looked at the fading light of the torch he carried and hastened after him. She may still be lost in the labyrinth.

She had followed him for several minutes when they entered a larger chamber than all the others. It was sparsely decorated, except for one corner where an organ was placed. That corner was as lavish as she had heard Versailles was. Fine materials were draped over the most precious of woods, and intricate ornaments lined the surfaces. Three golden candelabras sat nearest the organ, and a small lantern sat on the other. Clearly that was where most of his time was spent.

Beyond the corner was a small walkway that led to three other rooms. The first was curtained and dark, but she made out the faint outline of a half-formed table, indicating an ongoing project. The second room was small, but had drains, pumps and storage, probably a kitchen of sorts. The final room was obvious. A large, curtained bed dominated the space, but the shelves of books lining the walls caught her attention as well.

The room was horseshoe shaped around an outcropping of the underground lake, and a portcullis separated it from the water-filled passageways beyond. The man had stopped in front of her and was peering at her curiously. "What?"

"You're white. It's as if…" His eyes traveled down her body until they rested upon a crimson patch on her ruined dress that had bled through onto his cloak. The hole torn through the middle indicated a shallow but dangerous knife wound. She followed his gaze and remembered the cause of her weakness. That was why she had been unable to fight off her attacker. She blinked solidly and looked back up at him. He put the torch in a wall sconce and took her hand. "Come." He led her into the third room, placing her gently on the bed.

He stared at her now covered form and licked his lips in nervousness. He could help her, but she was a woman, and women were not exactly fond of men, particularly strange men whom they had just seen murder, seeing them in any state of undress. She needed his help, but he needed her permission for some reason he couldn't quite identify. "You are wounded," he said lamely, the obviousness of the statement painfully apparent to him. "I can help you, if you will let me."

Her eyes were becoming glassy, and he was not sure if it was to his question or simply the sound of his voice that she nodded. It would have to be enough. He poured some whiskey down her throat and arranged her near the edge of the bed. It wasn't long before she was insensible to the world around her, and the knowledge that she was insentient calmed him some. Cautiously, he removed the cloak she had gathered around herself. Her shredded bodice loomed before him like a challenge. He had to remove it to help her, but he had not touched anyone in a long time, and a woman was almost forgotten to him, but not so forgotten as to not recall the desirous sensations they stirred within him. He put it out of his mind for the moment, for both their sakes.

He set to work bathing the cut in water he had heated, then pouring the whiskey into it to cleanse it. She shifted when he did, and a half-conscious moan escaped her lips. He sewed the gash shut as quickly as he could, covering her with a blanket as soon as he was done.

He left the room and sat at his organ. He had been given a harem once, a dozen or more women at his beck and call. He had not had to wear the mask with them; they were commanded not to look upon his face. He had been loved by a woman in every way physically possible, he believed. But never more than physically and how could he blame them? How could any of those beautiful concubines truly love someone whose face was so horribly distorted? He played a loud, dissonant chord that filled the room with a noise as painful as the memories that were coming back to him. Music would not bring solace this night, and he poured himself his first glass of whiskey, waiting for sleep or death to claim him.


	2. To Wake in Temptation

She groaned quietly as she woke, the pain in her side bringing her to an unhappy half-consciousness. The fine linens wrapped around her body were foreign to her, and she struggled against their mummy-like encasement. She refused to open her eyes. Whatever reality or unreality she was in was good enough for the moment. She released herself from her bed clothes and rolled over on the bed. Her head landed on a long, firm pillow, and she let herself relish in this comfort that was so foreign to her.

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He woke from his stupor slowly, the whiskey leaving its sledgehammer mark on his head. He took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling. It took all his willpower to control the pain, but control it he did. He sighed, trying to remember what had caused him to drink so much, and whiskey at that. It was a wretched drink, and usually he drank wine. He only had the whiskey for health purposes. Health…surgery…the girl! He had forgotten about her. His mind was still fogged in liquor, but the feel of weight against his torso cleared it rapidly. There lay the girl, as content a look as he had ever seen. She was still mostly asleep, and she lay against him in a way that let him know that it was not a conscious effort that brought her to that position. He started when she let out a sort-of purr and placed her hand near her head on his stomach.

By heaven and hell, this woman was going to drive him mad. He remembered that she was still without a dress, and felt the impulse to scurry out of the room. The other, more primal half of him took too much pleasure in the feel of her body against his to leave. It was this half that won, and he lay there, silent, watching his unknown patient sleep.

She had brown hair that reflected a deep auburn in the candle light, and her face was pale, but not alarming so, as it had been the previous night. Freckles were lightly sprinkled around her nose, and there was a small pockmark between her eyebrows, but few other blemishes. She carried scars from a time unknown on her right shoulder, and her pale, even skin continued down her collarbone to her chest, which was hidden by the sheets and her position. She was built like any other chorus girl at l'Opera, but her frame was bent at extreme angles, and it seemed to him that every joint in her body must be working to produce the strange figure she presented on the bed.

"Who are you?" he wondered softly, wiping a wisp of hair behind her ear.

"Mmmm, the Phantom…" she mumbled in her sleep.

He laughed, a warmer laugh than the previous night, but everything about him was much warmer at the moment. "I think you may have the two of us mixed up, little one."

Her hand drifted lower, and he hissed. If he didn't entangle himself from her soon, she might well drive him beyond his limits. He rolled out from under her, his anger rising within him. Who was this simple chorus girl to torture him like this?

He stalked off into the darkness, leaving her to wake up alone.


	3. Investments

Bonjour, good readers. Pardon my tardiness, but I was trying to paint the man accurately, and he can be difficult to characterize. But I digress. I greatly appreciate those that review and encourage my writing. Again, I beg your indulgence in the form of an aye or nay in a review. For the sake of your enlightenment, I feel I should share with you a review I received in a rather odd form several days ago.

It arrived with the daily post, in unusually fine paper with a red wax seal. The seal itself had been rendered unidentifiable by the wonders of the postal service, and the smudged address offered only that it was written by something like a fountain pen. Fascinated, as anyone rightly would be, by this mysterious letter, I opened it. It read as follows.

_Mademoiselle,_

_I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my story is to be told. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. Your manuscripts have been returned to you, and I am anxious that the story should progress. In the new chapter of "The Chorus Girl", you will therefore recount the events as they actually occurred, not as your inventive desperation for a fine tale should dictate. The roles in this story are exacting, and if you are not up to the challenge, your days writing of Opera Populaire are numbered. Remember there are worse things than a shattered chandelier._

_I remain, mademoiselle, your obedient servant._

_O.G._

And so I leave you to the tale…

It was late the next day when she finally woke, though in the darkness of l'Opéras catacombs, there was no way of telling what time it was. A single candle burned in the corner, casting a singular light over the bed. She resisted consciousness, but the ache of her side was too much for her frail slumber to ward off. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. She woke up slowly, the whiskey of the night before leaving its drowsiness on her. She sat up, the dull throb in her abdomen causing her to wince. Her cut had been bound and cleaned, but by whom? She thought of the mysterious man who had saved her. He must have done it.

"You must be careful about your movements; you could reopen the wound."

She whipped around to face him, startled by the voice. His eyes widened, and she looked down at herself. Her chest was still bare, the remnants of her dress having been discarded the night before when he had sewn her up. She hastily gathered the sheets around her. "I, wh, I…" she stammered, her face flaming at what had just happened.

He had turned away, his half-hidden face tinted as well. The color seemed strange on his normally pale cheeks, but he controlled it. He must control himself. It was the only way to retain his sanity through such torment.

"You're dress was irreparable. It is in the corner if you should like to keep it for scraps. I'll fetch something to cover you." His voice sounded far more controlled than he felt. It had been so long since he'd had to accommodate anyone but himself, so very long. His mind turned to the more immediate task of finding something suitable for the girl to wear. He sighed. For now it would have to be his clothes; he would get her a dress tonight. He certainly could afford it. After all, what does one do with 20,000 francs a month when you have a comfortable home, eat very little, and can't show your face? Nothing. It sits and waits for the day when a use is presented, and one was most certainly being presented now. He gathered a shirt and trousers for her and started back for her room.

"Here," he said, laying the clothes on the foot of the bed. "These will have to do for now."

"I… Thank you." She bit her lip nervously.

"What is wrong? Does it hurt?" After the care he had taken with this girl, he would not lose her to complications; she was too large of an investment now.

"I was just thinking that I would cause quite a stir in l'Opéra should I walk in dressed in trousers." She laughed, wincing as her side shook.

He shot her a look that stemmed the laughter in a moment. He nearly regretted the look on her face, but the thought that she was an investment for another time returned to him, and he remembered that he needed to keep her very much in his control if things were to go well for him. "You may dress in here." He departed then, leaving her alone in the dimly lit room.

She sat up slowly, his glare and her side making her uneasy. She picked up the shirt and stood slowly. Feeling suddenly interested in her surroundings she turned around curiously. The bed was covered in the finest sheets she had ever felt, or seen for that matter, and the cover was an ornate design of many colored silks. The bed itself was grand in scale and make. Expensive hard woods that had obviously been carved by hand twisted about the base, giving the illusion of feathers. The graceful neck of the statue-like swan bed was made of similar wood, with gold inlaid to provide highlights where they were desired.

She awed for a moment before slipping into the cotton shirt he had given her. It was large for her; the breadth of the shoulders showed it to be a man's, but she had worn such things before. She slid the pants on and tied the ribbon he had left her as a belt tightly around her waist. Her gaze was drawn to the rug that her toes were sinking into. The colors were deep and exotic, like the Persian rug she had once glimpsed in La Carlotta's dressing room when she had snuck in on a bet. She sneered darkly as she remembered the beating she had gotten for that. But she had gotten the 5 francs from each of the impressed ballet rats. Fifty francs each was not a bad profit for a few days of soreness. She knew that the rug was not something easily gotten in Paris, except by the exceedingly wealthy. The manager had had to buy it to appease La Carlotta during one of her Prima Donna tantrums, and pay had been reduced for much of the chorus and ballet for several months for him to afford it.

She turned again. Beside her, the candles ascended in hinged candlesticks on either side of the swan's head. Their flames seemed too steady to be normal candles, prompting her to investigate. After a moment of close scrutiny, she exclaimed in surprised delight, "They're lamps! Tiny gas lamps!" The sound brought him to the door.

"Are you well?"

"I was just amazed by the lamps! They are ingenious! Wherever did you get them?"

"I did not 'get' them. I created them."

She turned, incredulous. "You mean you made these? They're brilliant!" She eyed the lights again. "But aren't they a bit unnecessary? I mean, so much work for something that only takes a moment anyway…"

"They are quite simple to operate, and were very little work once I conceived the idea." The girl was beginning to annoy him with her cockiness, and he had never been one to tolerate a nuisance for very long. He moved to the other side of the door and pulled back a curtain. "They are turned on and off from this valve, which controls the gas flow as well as the sparking apparatus on the lamps. Note." With one smooth movement he turned the knob several clicks, extinguishing all the lights in the already shadowy, leaving the two of them in near blackness. He waited a moment for effect, to hear a gasp of surprise or a whimper of fear, but neither came. Unconsciously disappointed in the apparent ineffectiveness of his theatrics, he reversed the motion, and the lights came on with a loud snap of the flint striking steel.

"They are truly impressive," she murmured, examining the lamps closely.

"I am surprised you recognized them at all." He made sure the disdain in his voice was heavy and barely veiled with a false consideration.

She seemed to ignore his tone, continuing with her inspection of the lamps. "I was intrigued by the unusual steadiness of the flame. Candle flames are more volatile." She ran her finger through one of the flames.

"Stop! What are you doing?" He took a step forward and grabbed her hand away from the flames before it could pass through them again. He gripped her wrist harshly, confused anger contorting his face.

She wrenched her hand from him. "It won't hurt me. I could run my finger through the orange part all day and not even heat my finger. As long as I don't touch the blue part, the hottest part, I'm fine." She turned from him and ran the whole of her hand through the flames as well, making even the steady gas flames flicker for a moment. "Besides, I've always been a curious person. It's in my nature." She laughed grimly. "But it certainly has gotten me into trouble before."

He stepped back from her, realizing that the short distance between them was doing nothing to encourage the fear and awe he meant to instill in her, not to mention the treacheries of his body at the closeness of hers. "Curiosity killed the cat, mademoiselle."

She smiled and wagged a finger at him. "But the cat has nine lives, monsieur."

"The more curious the cat, the more swiftly its lives are taken."

"Touché, monsieur, touché. Any closer to the heart and I fear you may actually wound me." Her grim laugh filled the room again.

He left the room hurriedly. Any more of her insolence and he may well wound her, if you could say that the Punjab lasso wounded its victims. As he seethed at her impudence, he chided himself that not all investments were easy gains. Some required careful tending and patience. As he snapped the familiar rope between his hands, he thought it might need more patience than he possessed.


	4. Discoveries

Dear readers,

Forgive the length of this introduction, but my wonderful reviewers deserve a moment in my (rather small) spotlight. I appreciate the feedback, and to all readers, new ones in particular, an aye or nay is still greatly appreciated. But to those who have so far encouraged me: You are truly wonderful to me!

my-echo: Yes, I do know what it is like to nearly choke to death laughing and eating, and I'm glad that you found it amusing.

musiclover106: Thank you for your reviews, and while I have some ideas myself, I'm always willing to take suggestions on what exactly she will get herself into next.

Pussin boots: You were my first reviewer, and it meant the world. But what exactly did you mean by dumb girl? Just wondering myself.

To my Anonymous reviewers: Thank you for your opinions too. Keep reading!

---

When he later emerged from the most secret of places, his temper having cooled considerably, he did not find her in the bedroom. Something like anxiety struck him in the gut. What if she had gone back? He had no hold on her; indeed, he now felt that fear would not be effective with her. She had, after all, seen him kill _before_ she had followed him. And she had mistaken his tending her for, of all things, kindheartedness. He smiled a sort of half-sneer, one end curving up behind his mask. No, he was only kind to young Miss Daae. Now, she was someone he would willingly tend to.

This girl though, he _had_ to be kind to. He needed her allegiance, and if fear would not work, then a rough imitation of compassion would have to do. Cursing under his breath, he set out to find her. As he turned the corner toward the boat, he heard it: the soft vibrato of a plucked string. He rushed toward the instrument room. Perhaps this girl was more trouble than she was worth.

What he found when he entered stopped him cold. In her lap was violin, an old one he had been meaning to repair for years. She was running her hands along the three remaining strings and plucking out a simple tune. It was a folk song he had heard before, but could not identify. The melody somehow horrified his opera-trained ears and calmed his world-weary mind all at once. She hummed. It was not startlingly beautiful; in fact, it was rather plain, but he was still drawn to listen. Words in a tongue he did not understand followed, and foreign syllables spilled out as if begging the unmanned instruments lining the walls to join in. They didn't, but he approached and stood over her. She gasped, the song ending in a dissonant chord that made him wince.

"Get up." She obeyed, cradling the old violin like a child. "What was that?"

"I just wanted to see…so I just…and I saw the fiddle…and it was old…and I thought."

"Stop babbling, girl," he bellowed. Then, his voice soft as satin, "What was the song?"

"I, I don't know. I've never known the name."

"Where did you learn it? To play I mean." His voice was condescending, yet interested.

She stiffened. "My da' taught me."

"He taught you to play it like that?"

"My arms were too short then, so he set it in my lap." Her jaw tightened, a motion imperceptible to those not trained by time to know the small things are the most important. "I grew too slowly. I could never really reach, and then he was gone." She said no more, and though he felt the urge to press, he maintained his silence.

"You play it like a dulcimer. Do you know what that is?" She shook her head, and the role of teacher momentarily overwhelmed him. "It is an instrument from America that has three or four strings that are plucked, like you were doing. They're fairly new, but there is another kind of dulcimer that you strike with hammers. And…" He realized that this time it was he that was babbling. He stopped midsentence and walked to a dusty corner of the room, rummaging through instruments that had sat unplayed for years. He pulled out an hourglass shaped instrument. "This is a mountain dulcimer." She still stared at him, confusion written on her face. For some reason the look frustrated him, and he felt the need to change the subject. "Mademoiselle, what is your name."

"Cecily. Cecily Pencombe." He nodded, and turned to leave the room. "Wait! What is yours?"

He turned back, the flickering shadows casting darkness over the unmasked portion of his face, making it look as though the mask was suspended in the air. He took a deep breath. What should he tell her? Of all the names he had, what would help him most? He could not reveal he was the Opera Ghost now; it would shatter everything he had worked so hard to accomplish. What did that leave him? "My name is Erik."

Before she could respond, he had once again disappeared.


	5. Superstition

Salut! I'm sorry this comes a little later than I had hope it would. This is a short chapter, too, which does nothing by way of atonement for my tardiness. Alas, I have no other offering of penance, so this small chapter must do.

My precious, wonderful reviewers- Do not abandon me yet! Your reviews do very much to inspire me to write, and so I beg you not to stop.

Your obedient servant,

S. R.

Silence pervaded Erik's tomblike lair, and it was nearly driving Cecily mad. She was used to crowds of loud drunken people. While it seemed that enough whiskey had been dosed out the night before to make both she and Erik drunk, it was the uncanny hush that unnerved her. She had avoided the instrument room after her run in with Erik, and found herself sitting by the edge of the lake, doing her very best at amusing herself. She had done it before, long cold hours spent without light of any kind until her eyes practically screamed in agony when the light finally did hit them. She had learned to put herself deep within her mind, far away from whatever reality was at the moment. It had been a necessary knowledge then, and she was certainly glad she possessed it now.

She found herself drifting into herself, ignoring the outside world. Time disappeared to her, and she moved as freely through time as she could through the room. An umbrella fell from a woman's hand as she entered, and Cecily watched as it hit the ground, the noise clattering eerily through the house. "Cecily…" She turned, the familiar feminine voice a comfort and an omen all at once. "Why Cecily? What have you done?"

She saw the black cloths draped over every mirror and the old grandfather clock in the bedroom as it was stopped. Even though the winter was full and cold, the neighbors insisted that the windows be opened "to prevent misfortune." Cecily believed none of it, but did it to humor them. Even when she caught pneumonia and was sent away to be cared for, she wanted to humor them. Damn them, she thought now. Damn them and their damned superstitions and accusations!

Time stretched again, and she saw the desolate gray of the building as she approached. It was a gray that in the coming months would seep into her soul so deeply she was sure it had stained her. But even the wretched gray was beter than the blackness, the horrible darkness without a hint of light. She was trapped in the blackness for so long. So long, in fact, that the light lost its attractiveness to her, becoming a garish demonstration by the world she no longer belonged to of its supposed goodness.

"Damn you, you bastard! It could have been different!" She didn't realize she had said it out loud until he replied.

"What could have been different?" Erik had watched silently as she stared distantly over the lake. She had begun to shake more and more violently until she finally cried out.

"Nothing, I just…I was just dreaming, I suppose." She stood hastily and retreated to the bedroom, slipping under the covers and trying to fill her mind with thoughts that wouldn't bring her nightmares of the past. As she drifted into sleep, visions of a white mask and a man in the shadows overcame her.

Erik stood by the lake thinking. She had obviously been imagining the past. Remembering can be a dangerous occupation. He wondered now what she was remembering.


	6. Changes

Erik stood in the doorway of the bedroom. She had fallen asleep on top of the blankets, and was curled up for warmth. Whatever had haunted her mind minutes before was obviously past, and in sleep her face held none of the animosity that it sometimes did while she was awake. He almost hated to wake her, but her bandage had to be changed, and that was not something she could do herself because of its location.

He moved closer to the bed and looked down at her. It was strange to him, having another living, breathing human being there. He almost expected her to turn on him at any moment, tear off his mask and scream. Still, she had only said that she wanted to leave, never anything about hating him. How could she hate him? After all, he had saved her life, hadn't he? He looked down at her again, and for a moment, the thought crossed his mind that he could use her as more than an advocate in l'Opera. His investment could pay dividends larger than what he had originally planned…

"What the hell are you doing?" She had woken to him standing directly above her. She gathered the covers around her, recalling the earlier incident, then remembered she had clothing on. "Do you always stand above other people while they sleep? I could have killed you, you loony!"

He backed away. He did not fear her, but her raving was not something he wanted to feel as well as hear. "I doubt you could have killed me, Mlle. Pencombe. You would hardly have stood before the pain brought you down."

"I've been standing all bloody day and the pain hasn't doubled me over yet!" She placed her feet on the floor, ready to prove it to him. She pushed her weight to her feet, but never quite made it to standing. Her face went the color of whey and she fell back down to the bed, her breath escaping in a pained whisper.

He crossed the room again and helped her lay down again. He lifted the shirt, which she tried to prevent. Even through the dried blood on the bandage he could make out fresh crimson. "You've reopened it. It'll have to be stitched again. Lay here, I'll get the whiskey." He stood to leave, but she grabbed his hand, a gesture that made him a bit skittish.

"Just get it over with."

"You will squirm too much with the pain."

Cecily fixed him with a look that would have withered roses. "I will be fine. Just get it over with, damn you!" Each word came out a measured hiss, and Erik realized that if he did not do it as she asked, she would likely try to kill him if she survived. It was a revelation he did not appreciate. Threats were his to make, not to receive.

Nonetheless, he retrieved the needle, scissors, and thread from a nearby table. "As you wish, mademoiselle. Do not expect me to be particularly kind because you choose to be obstinate."

She turned her face away and he began his work. He unwrapped the bandages, anger preventing the thoughts that had come to him the first time he had tended her wound. He pulled the last bit away a little more roughly than he should have, but he didn't pause to think of it. As he had thought, the careful stitches of the night before were ripped in several places, and her skin was separating at the knife's slash.

As he touched the cloth to her wound to staunch the bleeding so he could begin, he felt her stiffen. _If she is pained now, she'll be in Hell momentarily_. He placed the stitches in swiftly, each a little less even then the one before, but all would hold. To his great surprise, she did not move again. He bound his work tightly, not allowing for much mobility. He did this for her own sake, so she could not reopen it again, but also for his own. Her threat still echoed in his mind, and he wanted to keep all parts of him intact.

"There, I'm finished." She didn't reply, and if it weren't for the rise and fall of her chest, he may have thought she was dead. "Mademoiselle?" Still no answer. "Cecily?" He moved to the other side, convinced she was unconscious. Instead, her eyes were open. She turned her face to the pillow, but not before he saw her tears. Even the pillow was wet. His voice softened. "Cecily? Do you need something?"

"Wnc nigoack?" Her muffled voice was unintelligible, and he held back a smile.

"What?"

She lifted her head. "When can I go back?"

The question caught him off guard. "When your wound doesn't require so much care. At this point, you still need someone else's help, and if you returned, it could raise questions that neither of us want answered?"

She bit her upper lip in thought. "How long?"

"A day or two, but you will have to be careful for several weeks afterward."

"A day?"

He nodded. "At the least."

He turned to leave, but her voice caught him. "Erik?"

"Yes, Cecily?" It occurred to him that formalities did not stand between them any longer, and it was a bit unnerving.

"This isn't the first time I've been in the dark for days. I've done it before. Alone. Well, alone enough. There were times when I certainly wished I was. The guards were never kind to any of us, least of all me. What I'm saying is, thank you for being so kindly toward me. I would have died. Several times."

He realized what she was saying, and the feeling that he had been punched in the gut returned. "Think nothing of it, little one."

She smiled, the redness of her eyes belying the action. "I won't forget it, Erik." With that she slid under the blanket and fell asleep.

---

Oh, I couldn't resist a bit indulging. Don't get me wrong, Erik has not lost his Phantom darkness. It just is a different situation then he's ever been in, and there's still the "investment" part to it. Please continue with your opinions, aye or nay, and the comments. The reviews thus far have been ambrosia and nectar for my writing soul. Au revoir, S.R.


	7. Without Knowing Why

Salut, good readers! I have returned once again, begging your indulgence to my humble writing. I have been in touch with the Monsieur O.G., who believes that this incident should be included, although it does not directly impact the life of our title character for some time. This is how M. O.G. recalls the event, and, to ensure that I keep my neck quite free from the obstruction of a Punjab lasso, this is how I record it. I must admit, I never realized that this undertaking would be quite so hazardous to my well-being. Alas, such is the risk one must run to record the captivating life of the Phantom of l'Opéra Populaire.

---

Erik felt the need to do his regular rounds of l'Opéra; they had been neglected of late. In fact, he had been on his way there when he came across a wounded girl and her attacker. He sighed as he realized he had still not disposed of the body. It would have to be done. For now, his thoughts focused on l'Opéras operations. The manager was finally listening to him, as well he should. Things seemed to be flowing very nicely. The name of the Opera Ghost was still whispered, and the ballet rats tittered in nervous amusement when they told tales of him in the dark. Before long, they had all fallen asleep.

All were asleep except one. This little girl was still new to ballet troupe and often cried herself to sleep. She wished more than anything that her father would come and sweep her up in his arms, as he always had. But she knew it would not be so. Her father would never again sing with her, or play his violin while she played with her doll, or even say her name with laughter in his voice.

She clung to the one promise he had made her before he died. The promise of the Angel of Music he would send to her. The promise of her father returned to teach her to be a great musician as he had been. She curled up on her bed and hummed when the crying ceased this night. She hummed the tunes her father had taught her when they were traveling. She didn't know that another was listening to her song.

Her sound trailed off, but sleep would not come. Suddenly, she heard it. It was the sound of a soft deep voice. It was humming. For some reason, she knew it was only for her. She looked all around for the man who must be singing. When she found no one, an astonishing thought crossed her mind. Perhaps it was not a man; perhaps it was the Angel of Music her father had promised. With that thought, she smiled. "Thank you, angel," she whispered, then lay back down and went to sleep.

Erik did not know why he had done it. He had simply been on his way back to his lair when he felt the urge to check in on the ballet dormitories. He thought they would all be long ago asleep, so it surprised him to hear the uneven breathing of a crying girl. He had watched the little blonde girl's tears lessen, and listened as she hummed. It was folk tune of the north, he knew. She hummed for several minutes, but the look on her face was so forlorn that Erik could not resist helping her slip into the type of sleep that he had left Cecily in: a worriless, trouble-free sleep. He began to hum, and only when he had finished did he realize it was the song Cecily had played earlier.

It was her smile that would draw him back on nights to come. That smile was so innocent, so trusting. And she called him 'angel.' There was something that drew him to her, something that he would never identify.

He stayed no longer that night. Content that the girl was asleep, he continued deep into the catacombs, not thinking about her until his next trip into l'Opéra. For now, his mind rested with Cecily.


	8. Innocent Seduction

To my dear readers:

It is yet another day, and another chapter. This particular chapter put renewed interest into the story for me, as I hope it does for you. I tried to play this scene as in-character as possible for the two, but tell me if you think otherwise. I will be happy to reexamine my situations and future plans to perhaps include your suggestions. As always, your reviews are the lifeblood of my writing, so please continue to give an aye or nay for each chapter, if you would be so kind, and any other comments or suggestions you may have. I hope the best for you all today.

Your humble author,

S.R.

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The sun rose the next morning, as it always does, but neither Erik nor Cecily were aware of it. Deep within the caverns of l'Opéra, the sun's rays could not penetrate the darkness, and Cecily woke once more in a haze of candle-lit twilight. The dusk played against her mind, and consciousness was hard to come by for a moment. When she emerged victorious from the struggle to open her eyes, they widened immediately. On a chair next to the bed was laid a dress. She sat up slowly, wary of the effects of her wound. Standing took a bit more effort, but the desire to feel the dress, to know it wasn't just her imagination, drove her to resist the nausea.

The dress was amazing; if it truly was for her, the other chorus members would envy her a week and a day. She picked it up and held it to her frame. To her great astonishment, it seemed to be precisely her size! She laughed lightly at herself. To be so impressed with frivolities such as dresses was not her usual style. What made this so special?

"Will you only hold it there, or will you actually try it on?" Erik was leaning in the doorway, smirking at her as she smiled stupidly at the frock.

"I cannot very well try it on with you standing there, lest I should be less than proper." She laughed. It was a deep laugh, not in tone but in origin. It seemed to bubble up from her very soul. Erik smirked in spite of himself. He turned from the doorway. He seemed to have guessed properly as far as her size. He admitted he knew little about the fashions of women, and had grudgingly accepted the help of a middle-aged woman whom he had wanted very badly to strangle by the time he left the shop.

He sat down at his organ, playing softly. He picked an early part of his opera, Don Juan Triumphant. The opera was still in its early stages, and some parts of it were still not set. He had decided to call the diva's role Aminta, but her character was taking its time in coming forth. He smirked again. It was as if she was shy, he thought. How absurd to think of an opera character as shy in presenting herself, particularly in the opera he was writing. Still, he made a note of it among the seemingly endless stacks of composition he was drawing from. Shyness would play well against his Don Juan.

Several minutes had passed, and he heard no noise from the bedroom. His brow wrinkled; where was she? He stood, carefully placing the papers on the bench. He made plenty of noise to ensure she knew he was coming. It would not do well to barge in on her half way through changing. That would cause too many complications. The color rose slightly in his cheeks as he remembered her previous state of undress, the feel of her body against his… He shook his head to clear it of such mental clutter. Such thoughts would only make things uncomfortable and difficult. Better to keep a purely platonic train of thought.

"Cecily? Is everything all right?" He entered slowly, receiving no response from within. She was standing at a mirror from which the covering had been removed. She was in the dress, and Erik breathed sharply. She certainly cut a magnificent figure in the gown. He shook his head again. "It fits properly then?"

Cecily turned, and Erik saw there were tears in her eyes. "Yes, it's beautiful."

"What is wrong, little one?" He crossed the room, and wiped away a tear. Yes, he could play at this kindness and compassion when fear would not work. Living beneath l'Opéra must have honed his acting skills.

She looked up at him, and the sadness melted. It was replaced by caution. She backed away a step. "Nothing, Erik. Everything is fine." She turned back to the mirror. This was so odd, and the picture the two of them presented in the mirror was the perfect image of it. The dress he had bought her was the color of the sea before a storm, if a shade or two lighter. She was nearly as tall as he, but out from behind her, his black formalwear and leather mask loomed, like the shoulder demon her mother had spoken of when she was young.

Erik noticed the strange impression the two of them made in the mirror as well. She was so damned innocent, the color and style of the dress only enhancing that feature. And he, well, he was as black as the ash of Hell, both in cloak and deed. He placed a gloved hand on her shoulder and she turned. Her eyes still held the carefulness that had been placed there a moment before. Damn! He was so confident in his act of compassion. Now, she doubted his true intentions, but there was still no fear of him behind the vigilance.

She stood there for a moment, looking at her, trying to see what was hidden in her eyes. It occurred to him that she was doing the same, and he almost flinched. Something within him demanded that he not give her the satisfaction of seeing him unnerved, and he remained stoic. Suddenly, she seemed to decide something. Before he could decipher what the decision was, she did something he would never have expected at that moment.

Raising herself up a bit, she placed her lips chastely to his left cheek. "Thank you, Erik. It is the most beautiful dress I have ever owned, or ever will own, in all likelihood. Thank you." She looked at him for only a second before scurrying from the room.

Erik stood motionless for several moments. His face burned where her lips had touched his skin. She was a temptress, as the man in the catacombs had said! He clenched his fists and cursed her silently. Her innocent seduction would drive him mad if he let it. He should kill her for this! At the same time, he wanted nothing more than to feel her lips on his skin again. He craved her touch as one craved air after being underwater for what seemed like an eternity. He wanted to feel human contact again, but not from just anyone. He wanted Cecily's hand on his face, her lips on his, their bodies entwined until it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.

His hand collided sharply with the stone wall. He felt the ache as the stone left small cuts in his knuckles, but no sound came from him. Damn her! She wasn't even in the room and she was seducing him by placing these thoughts in his mind. She was a sorceress, calling to him in his mind. He should kill her. For once, he was glad he did not have his Punjab lasso with him. He knew that if he had, he would have followed through on his threats.


	9. How It Stings

Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année!

Pardon this bit of giddiness, but OMG! I can't believe I left you such a state as last chapter! I fear this chapter may not be as satisfying as some have hoped, but, as you know from the letters you have seen, I must remain loyal to the resources that Monsieur O.G. has so kindly made available to me. To that end, said Monsieur has been rather slack in advancing his story, and the future of this story is apparently up to conjecture. If any of my readers have an idea as to what happened to Cecily and Erik, please include them in a simple approval or disapproval review. But I digress. You came to read a story, not hear me prattle on. Until next time, dear reader, pouvez vous entendez la musique de la nuit.

---

Cecily stared out over the dark water. What had she done? Such an act was commonplace in the candid world above, but if there was one thing she had learned about Erik, it was that he was not of the world above. The dress was beautiful to be sure. She had been honest when she told him she had and probably never would own another of its like. But that should not have been enough to override her common sense. She berated herself for her slip of judgment.

Her face still burned where he had touched it when wiping away her tear. He had been so gentle, so tender that she wouldn't have realized anything was amiss were it not for his eyes. His eyes were not kind, not soft like his words. Some other motive was behind his actions, one she could not place.

She buried her face in her knees, the simple blackness comforting against the swirl of thoughts in her mind. The image of his face after she had kissed him had scored itself into her mind, aided by those burning eyes of his. His eyes would haunt her for the rest of her life, she knew. They had at first been only a glow in the hopeless dark of the dungeons where she was sure she would die. Then they had smoldered with an angered passion deeper than any she had seen before. It was the passion that made her realize that she could never forget.

She had seen him kill with that passion in his eyes; the body still lay where it fell for all she knew. No, he was too thorough. She shuddered with the thought of Erik disposing of that wretch's body. That passion had burned so deadly then, so hot she feared those eyes would scorch her with their heat. What frightened her now was that she had seen passion in his eyes again after she kissed his cheek. He could kill her easily, if he wanted, or do things much worse than murder.

But would he? He had so far shown her only kindness when not in a fit of temper, and why be kind to her when he only planned to harm her? No, unless she continued to anger him as she apparently had, she still felt safe with him. What an odd sensation, to feel safe with a man she had seen kill, but she did feel safe. She had never felt safer in her life, except with her father, and that was so long ago.

She heard him emerge, but didn't lift her head from her knees. She couldn't face those eyes yet, and the familiar darkness behind her eyes was comforting against his intensity.

He walked silently out of the bedroom. He saw her sitting by the water and had no desire to attract anymore of her attention. His anger toward her was still hot, but it didn't rage as it had moments before. Her body told him that she regretted what she had done. He had been correct, she had not meant to tempt him. After all, why would anyone with eyes want to seduce him? Still, the kiss had been another step in her allurement. Damn her!

He clenched his fists, but the pain that caused made him hiss. He looked down and examined the small tears in his gloves. There was blood coming from each one, places where the unforgiving stone had left its indelible mark. He moved to the drawer where he kept the bandages and alcohol. He fumbled for a moment, trying to find a way to remove the ruined gloves from one hand without causing pain to the other. After several botched attempts, he cursed and slouched into a nearby chair.

Cecily had heard him. She had watched him get out the bandages and awkwardly endeavor to remove his gloves. As much as she didn't want to go anywhere near him, Cecily knew she had to. He needed her help, and she would not let him down, not when she owed him so much. Reluctantly, she stood and walked into the room. He did not notice her, or at least showed no reaction.

She knelt before him and took one of his hands into hers. His head jerked up, and she felt him try to pull his hand back, but she held on to his wrist firmly. She raised his sleeve just enough to slip her finger beneath the edge of the glove. As gently as she could, she began to carefully strip the thin leather from his hand. It took several moments before she pulled the last of it off his fingertips, but she did it without hurting him too badly. She reached for the other and began on it.

Erik watched in utter fascination as she worked the gloves away from his damaged hand. The part of him that had just wanted to kill her was utterly silenced as she aided him. He had not asked her for help; indeed, he never would have. She had come of her own accord.

Cecily covered a cloth with clean water and touched it to his hand. His sharp intake of breath made her feel a bit guilty at causing the pain, but she disregarded it. She wiped his hands clean of the dirt that had embedded itself into the cuts. When she was satisfied that both hands were clear of debris, she held both of them up. "Hold still." He scoffed, but did as she said. She poured some of the alcohol over his hands and patted it with the cloth. He hissed and tried to pull his hands back again. Again, she grabbed his wrists and held them there.

"Calm down, Erik. I know it stings, but it had to be done. Here now," she said, blowing softly on his hands to cool the sting of the alcohol. He held stock still as she did, his teeth gritting together. She probably took it as a sign of pain, and he didn't care. He would never have wanted her to guess the true reasons for the action.

After several moments, she pulled back and wrapped his hands in a bandage. "There you are, monsieur. They're not bad, as I'm sure you know. A day at most for you." He flinched. He wanted to play the organ, but knew that he couldn't. Even a day without his music frightened him. "I know. A day sounds like an eternity sometimes, doesn't it?" Without another word she slipped from the room, a look that Erik read clearly as _Now you know how I feel_ written on her face.

When he was certain she was out of hearing range, he looked down at his hands. He knew quite plainly that she suspected his motives, but still she was kind to him. This fell out of his range of experience, and so his range of reactions. In that single moment, his desire for her ceased to be physical, his loathing of her disappeared. His investment mentality swept away in a flood of confusion, he shook his head in a futile attempt to clear it. Staring openly at his bandaged hands, Erik found himself without a plan regarding the strange girl he had found in the catacombs below l'Opera.


	10. In His Care

Bonjour, good readers!

This chapter requires little explanation in itself, so I shall be brief.

myecho and musiclover106, I love you guys! You review so often, and I am so very glad you do. Thanks.

To the others, including Nota Lone, cyclobaby, solitairebbw218, and invaderoperaghost: your reviews bring smiles to my face. Please continue to let me know what you think about each chapter, including the direction of the story. I said I would be brief, and I am dearly trying.

Adieu, fair readers, until the next chapter (which I should be posting simultaneously).

---

Cecily made her way silently back to the bedroom. She knew she should feel at a least a little guilty over his cuts because her thoughtless kiss had driven him to it. Strangely, though, she didn't. She felt no guilt over his scrapes. What surprised her most though, was that the remorse for the kiss itself was beginning to fade. He may not be like any other dweller of l'Opéra, but she was in many ways. She did not have to cater to him in every single one of her reactions. She bit her lip, a bit nervous at the determination of her thoughts.

The bookshelves that had drawn her attention when she first followed Erik down attracted her notice once more. She had never seen so many books in one place. She ran her hand over several of them, the feel of dusty leather completely foreign to her fingers. She hesitated for a moment before pulling one down. Its weight surprised her a bit, and she laid it on the bed, sitting down beside it. Gingerly, she opened the cover. The smell of long disuse rose from that first page and made her sneeze.

It was the sneeze that Erik heard. He had risen from his seat in the alcove and was going to play on the organ when the soft sound escaped the room. He went back to the darkness of his most secret place and pulled out a bag full of curative herbs. Really the herb did no more than distract the sick person from their cold, dulling the throat to the pain of the cough. He remembered what one of his philosophy books, by Voltaire perhaps, had said. "The art of medicine consists in amusing the patient while nature cures the disease."

It seemed that Erik could only aid her medically. It was an unexpected advantage of his training. Of course, it had been unexpected training for an assassin at the time. He had to admit, though, it had proven itself quite useful. Living as he did, he could not simply call for a physician or an apothecary. Treating himself, amusing himself as the disease took its course, was his only option. For once, he found himself able to help someone else. She could, he supposed, go out into the streets. There was an apothecary only a few blocks away that would be able to help her for little money. But, he acknowledged smugly, she had no need of an apothecary if she was in his care.

In his care. It was a phrase he had not consciously thought before in regards to Cecily, or anyone for that matter. It was a thought that both disconcerted and fortified him. The thought that there was another human being that depended on him for everything other than the breath she took was a new one. He had, naturally, held men's' lives in his hands before, held them so tightly that their last breaths were taken before they knew there was danger. But that had been then. Never before had he felt the need to cradle the spark of life, allow it burn brighter. He had never before wanted to feed the flames until its existence was obvious to everyone around. By God in heaven, what was this simple chorus girl doing to him? Soon he would be too weak to defend himself. He resolved to not give in that far. To accommodate her, but not change himself.

He paused by the door into the bedroom to make sure she was alright. He realized he had yet to express his gratitude for bandaging his hands, and meant to do so, as much as he bristled with the thought of thanking her, but the sight of her stopped him. She was bent over a book, her finger tracing each line as if it might either spring from the page into her lap or disappear with the next breath she took. He smirked and moved away. He would wait. She was apparently engrossed in whatever she was reading. It dawned on him then that her sneeze had come not from illness, but from the dust of the book.

Drawing water from the pipe he had rigged, he set it over a newly lit flame. He had no need to give her any medicine then, only plain tea. He let the water come to a boil and went to look for cups. One was easy enough to find. He drank tea occasionally, and water more often. It was better for the voice, and Erik would not forsake his music for anything. He had decided to brew himself a cup as well. It had been quite some time since he had last had one, and the thought of discussing a book over a steaming drink, as had been done in the coffee houses of Persia, was enticing.

After some rearranging of the shelves, Erik found a second cup. It was a small miracle of sorts, as he really only had one set of everything. He had never needed another. Perhaps he could remedy that as well. He was getting ahead of himself; he shook his head to clear his thoughts. He found he had been doing more of that in the past few days than he had in years. Without changing himself, hmm?

The steam from the boiling pot caught his attention and he poured two cups. He lifted both cups and flinched. The cuts on his hand had surprised him with the throb, but he was a master of controlling pain, and would do it now. He carried it through his lair and set it on the table next to the bed. It was a silly thing, the bed. Shaped like a ridiculous bird. He was not sure what had possessed him to obtain it. As art, the sculpting was good enough, but as a place to sleep? A coffin was enough for him, most of the time. The bed was there for times he wanted to be free of the confines of that small space, for the few times he wanted to forget that he appeared as nearly a skeleton anyway. It had come to good use, he supposed. He could not very well expect the girl to sleep in a coffin.

Cecily saw him and started. "Erik, I…" she trailed off. Suddenly, her eye caught the two cups on the table, and she smiled broadly. "Thank you, Erik." She took a cup in her hands and breathed in the steam. "This is brilliant. I love tea."

"It's green," he offered. When he got no response but the sound of her sipping the tea, he decided to launch headlong into it. "Cecily, you bandaged my hands." Why did he say such obvious things?

She chortled. "I know." She knew he was trying to thank her, and she wasn't going to let him off easily.

"Well, no one has ever done that for me before, and it, I mean to say, I…Thank you." Now was her cue, he knew. She could mock his tripped-up tongue and half-formed words.

"I'm glad I could help. I owe you so much."

He cocked his head slightly. Not so much as a barbed tone to her voice. He glanced down at the book. "What are you reading?"

She shrugged. "I don't know; I just got it off the shelves."

"I've read all of these, at least give me some topic," he prodded. He could not discuss a book she would disclose nothing about.

"You've read all of these?" She looked in awe from him to the bookshelves. "But there's so many!"

"I've read all these, the ones in the other room, and many that you haven't seen. But come; tell me what you were reading."

"I can't." His annoyed look induced her to explain. "Erik, I can't read."

"What?" He had not expected this, but he should have. Not all of the chorus could read, particularly those who were from outside Paris. Cecily's accent told him she was. He should have suspected this. "But you were looking so closely at it."

She held the book up to him, as if for inspection. "I can guess it is about art. There are so many paintings and drawings. I looked mostly at those. I had a sister who painted. The words were a mystery to me, but, I suppose this sounds silly, I thought that maybe by looking at them closely enough, I could figure out what they were trying to say."

He took the book from her and looked down at it. It was a book about Renaissance art. There were plenty of images, to be sure, but the words told the story of the book. The words relayed the lives of da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael, and others, including their works, their struggles, and their triumphs. That was where the value of the book lay. He looked up at Cecily, who was watching him warily. "Oh, Cecily. Would you like to know what it says?"

She threw herself at him, holding his forearm as if it were her last lifeline in the middle of the ocean. "Oh, I would! Could you tell me?"

He smiled slightly, the curl in his lip nearly disguising the expression. He sat down in the chair and she positioned herself at his knees, like a child to a storyteller. Satisfied with himself, he began to read about the life of da Vinci.


	11. Unsatisfied

Salut!

The author's note from last chapter still stands, as this is being posted at the same time. Also, I haven't posted a disclaimer for a while, if ever, and for those of you who haven't assumed if from every other story on this site and the fact that no one is paying to read this:

I own nothing included in M. Leroux's novel, or any other novel that pertains to my dearest Phantom (not that I've read any others or base the story off any of them). Nor do I own anything created by M. Lloyd Weber or M. Schumacher, or any of their fine associates. And to be completely sure, I own nothing that by chance may have fallen into this story from another film. I'm not sure how that could happen when I've only seen the 2004 version, but I want to be safe in case there are any crazed estate executors scanning for a story without a disclaimer, just waiting to pounce.

I do own Cecily, and anything that might be original to this plotline and setting, and fully hope that all read this respect that. I am honored by stories that play off mine, if anyone gets the inclination. Just don't write better than I do! (Wink wink ; )

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Neither Erik nor Cecily could tell how long he had been reading when he finally closed the book. "He sounds like you," she whispered.

"Pardon?"

"I said he sounds like you. He was good at everything. He could paint, draw, design, invent…You can do all those things. I saw the sketches when I bandaged your hands. You invented the gas candles. You designed a way to get water without having to pump it out. Practically the only thing you don't do is construct buildings!"

"I do. I built this place." It was out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"You what?" She was looking at him in utter awe. "You built this? How? When?"

"Too many questions. Be careful, little one, the cat may lose a life," he warned.

She took his not-so-subtle hint. "So you truly are like him, aren't you? Except you have one more thing: music."

_I have done so many more deeds that you would cower if I told you._ "Yes, little one, I suppose I am something like him. But it is late. Perhaps tomorrow, if your wound still holds well, you can return."

Erik wasn't sure, but he thought he saw something like disheartenment in her face. "Yes, of course." She pulled away from him; she had been leaning on his knee as a small child would. "I suppose we should both retire." A thought occurred to her. "Erik, where do you sleep?"

Another curious cat question. He could not tell her about the coffin. Sometimes it spooked him a bit; the girl would, in all likelihood, be scared witless. Just another thing about himself to keep locked away. "I rarely sleep, child."

"Oh! But Erik, you must sleep! I have taken so much from you, and your hand will heal better with rest! And I have taken your bed!" Her face was screwed up in childlike distress.

"It is all right," he said by way of comfort.

"No! No, it isn't!" She wrenched her face into a different position, evidently searching for a solution. Finally, she turned to him. "We both could sleep in the bed. It is plenty large enough for the both of us. Why, I wouldn't even know you were there!"

_I would know you were there_. "Cecily, I am quite satisfied to compose…"

She shook her head and tutted. "Nonsense! It is easy enough for us to accommodate one another, and there is no reason not to."

He looked at her. Her mind was made up, and he knew he either had to get angry with her, which for some reason he knew that she would return, or acquiesce, at least until she was too asleep to notice or care if he rose. "All right, Cecily. You win. Speaking of going to bed, I have something else for you." He left for a moment, returning with a nightgown in his hands.

She gasped. "Erik…" She tentatively ran her finger along the seam of the cloth. She looked up at him. "It, it's for me?"

"That is what I said, isn't it? You can't very well sleep in that frock."

She looked down at the dress he had given her that morning and, suddenly feeling self-conscious, ran her hands over the skirt to smooth them. "No, I suppose I can't." She took the nightgown in her hands as if it were made of glass and would break. She looked down at it a moment longer, but when she returned her gaze to him, the sparkle was back in her eye. "And you can't very well sleep in that finery. Go undress!" Seeing his shocked face, she corrected herself, blushing furiously. "Keep your breeches on, but the rest… Oooh, you are just trying to upset me, you scamp!" She turned and marched to the other side of the room. She whipped around again, obviously agitated, her face still aflame. "Go!"

She watched as he left the room. The nerve of that man! Making her feel like a stupid little girl! She was almost twenty, a good deal older than some of those in the employ of l'Opéra. Still, she did feel a bit childish in his presence. What was it about him? She gritted her teeth and slipped out of the dress. Her dress. It was odd, having such a piece of finery as her own. Her jaw relaxed a little. He had gotten it for her.

As she slid into the nightgown, she imagined she was an exotic princess, a sultana, with men throwing gifts at her feet just to catch a glance from her. She imagined she held court over hundreds of people every day. Entertainers from the far reaches of the globe would come to amuse her. Those that pleased her would be amply rewarded. Those that didn't…well, she wasn't sure what a sultana did with those.

She slipped beneath the covers and stared at the stone ceiling. She was deep into her imagination when Erik entered. She looked at him. He had removed the dress clothes and was wearing an outfit similar to what he had given her to wear. The shirt hung open at the chest, and she hastily diverted her eyes.

Erik saw her eyes shift and smiled when she pressed her eyes shut. Perhaps her beguilement had not been quite as innocent as he had thought. She was after all, a chorus girl in L'Opéra Populaire. It was not the most virtuous of places in Paris, and Paris was hardly the most virtuous in the world. She had seen the women coquet shamelessly, and if he was not mistaken, had picked up some of it, knowingly or not.

"Is this better than my 'finery,' Cecily?" He enjoyed the sight of her tensing and blushing. His eyes traced the blush until it disappeared behind the thin fabric of her nightgown. She turned toward him, and his eyes immediately returned to her face.

"It is." Her voice was as detached as she could make it.

"Are you quite sure there isn't anymore that I need remove?" He was taunting her, making her feel as he had felt.

To his surprise, she looked him over carefully. "No."

"What? No, there is no more I need remove, or no, I have missed something?"

"The second."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "And what would you have me remove now, Cecily?" He hoped to high heaven she could not hear the hunger in his voice.

"Well, I'm sure you would be much more comfortable…" She trailed off, leaving him agonizingly unsure of her idea.

"If…" he prompted.

"If you removed…Oh, it was not my place." She was toying with him now; they both knew it.

He leaned down over the bed, his mouth near her ear. "You must finish what you began, Cecily."

She shivered as his warm breath played against her ear. She could almost feel his lips brush against her skin as he spoke. She was tempted to give in at that moment, but was not finished with him yet. "If you remove…" her voice caught in her throat.

"Finish," he said again. He noted with pleasure that she was growing increasingly warm.

"If you remove…your socks." She finished. She bit her lip to keep from smiling as he hastily pulled back from her. "Honestly, Erik, I don't know how some men sleep with them on. It seems dreadfully uncomfortable to me."

"Yes, yes, of course." His mind was hardly on what he was saying as he removed them. The sly little minx! She had purposefully tempted him! He should kill her, as he had thought earlier. He wasn't sure why he hadn't. A flash of white bandages reminded him, and he abandoned thoughts of murder. For now.

He lay down between the sheet and the blanket, determined to keep a layer between himself and Cecily's body. As he stared up at the stone ceiling waiting for her to go to sleep, he drew one smug realization from the situation. The desire had been in her voice, too.


	12. Dreaming of You

Salut!

Oh, I am so glad that you liked my last chapter. I felt rather mischievous playing out the Phantom's story as I did, but he did say to follow closely to my sources. I am not sure he is aware, however, of all my sources. It is a pity the latest letter from Monsieur O.G. does not hold quite the amusement of your reviews. He seems to think that I am out to sabotage him by removing his shadowy image and innate fear-inducing ways. I simply am recording what I know, monsieur.

Ah well, I must continue to fill my writing duties. I pray that you will continue to enlighten me as to your opinions and ideas.

To clarify a bit, this chapter alternates between Cecily, who is in the waking world, and Erik, who is dreaming. By the end both are awake. Each section is separated by dashes. I hope that clears up any confusion that this choppy writing may have caused.

Until we next meet,

S.R.

---

Cecily woke first the next morning. Her side ached dully, but she gritted her teeth and forced her feet to the floor. She would be damned if she couldn't put aside pain anymore. She crossed the room toward her dress to restore her modesty, but her eyes caught Erik's sleeping form, and she paused by the edge of the bed. In his sleep, his thin body was relaxed, the tenseness of its waking hours dissipated in the peace of slumber. His face, or rather the half of it she could see, held few of the lines that it did in waking. The corners of her mouth turned up as she watched his hand reach blindly out for hers, only to retreat again when it did not find it. "Oh, Erik," she murmured.

Her hand dropped own to his cheek and hovered just above it. The rumor circulating among l'Opéra's staff was that the face hidden by that scrap of leather was so hideous that grown men would shriek if they saw it. However, she had also heard that no one had ever removed the mask, so she wasn't sure of the accuracy of the first piece of gossip. Of course, it was l'Opéra Populaire's grapevine she was picking from. She looked back down at her hand near his face. What did he look like behind the mask? Was he really as bad was said? She bit her lip in agonizing indecision.

---

Erik's dream was a strange, Kafkaesque blend of worlds. His mind raged against the gypsy cage that held it, and his breathing quickened in anticipation of the murder that he would soon commit. There was no comfort in this twisted world he lived in. Everywhere he went to find consolation, the hands drew away, unable to feel compassion for such a monstrous thing. He couldn't stand it any longer! That mangy cur of a gypsy deserved what was coming to him. The rope around his wrists burned the open wounds caused by the constant chafing of the bindings. He would make that villain feel the torture of this rope.

He listened as the door to his cage was opened and closed. He turned and leapt upon his tormentor, the cord wrapped tight around the gypsy's neck. He was blind with rage and vengeance. He ignored the muffled cries for help as the struggle ensued. It was a single word that froze him in place.

"Erik!" His captor had never before used his given name. Not only that, but the voice was strangely feminine. He looked down at his prey, the awkward boyish hands of only a moment before having become the lithe fingers of a grown musician. His hands pulled away and the makeshift noose fell heavily to the floor.

She was crying silently, the marks on her neck swollen and angry. Her eyes met his, and a sensation that he had never before known began to creep through him. He fought it with all his strength. It seemed to him as if she was suffocating him with this new feeling, and he would not give in. His eyes met hers again, and he felt a thick, leaden knot settle in the base of his stomach. He writhed in anguish, unable to break away from her gaze. She advanced slowly, her eyes matching every bit of intensity in his.

He shuddered as her hand rose up to his mask. His stomach lurched when he realized what she was doing. She would rip it from him, taking with it every ounce of dignity he had. He tried to escape her infuriatingly open gaze, her prying hands, but those eyes would not let him move. Her hand moved over the molded leather that covered his face, testing the edges. He wanted to scream at her to do something, anything! Anything would be better than this endless torture. Would she remove it and scream, the sound shattering his heart and soul? He closed his eyes against her stare. He felt her hand pause at the corner of his mask and braced himself for the inevitable.

---

"Oh, Erik," she murmured, running her hand down his jaw.

---

His eyes shot open. The unforgiving glare that had been in her eyes had been replaced by something he had no experience with. Allowing himself to give in to the exhaustion threatening to consume him, he fell to the ground, the conscious world vanishing to him.

---

Cecily stood for another long moment, taking in his dreaming face. She had abandoned her attempt to unmask the Phantom, for she knew now that was who he was. Her finger had run tentatively over his jaw, drawing them away from the mysterious mask. For once, she had subdued her curiosity. She had known that she could not repay his generosity and kindness, no matter their motive, with such a thoughtless act.

She pulled back her hand was beginning to walk away when he spoke. "Do you always stand above other people while they sleep?" His eyes opened slowly, taking in everything in the room. His tone was mocking. It was uncomfortable for him, like a suit that didn't fit. She realized he must not have had anyone to laugh with in a very long time. He was taking surprisingly well to humor, but the hardness remaining in his voice reminded her of his isolation and hostility.

"No, I do not, monsieur," she muttered turning hurriedly away to prevent him from seeing the blush creeping up her neck.

She heard him sit up. "Good morning, Cecily. How are you feeling today?"

She opened her mouth to tell him she was feeling quite well, but suddenly remembered that she was to leave that day. She thought of the bustling world above, of its loud, hurried people with constant obligations and plots. Of its blaring noise and garish light. Of the smells and the sights and the sounds and the tastes. Her stomach growled quietly at the thought of food. It had been three days and she had eaten only a little bread. It was as if she had forgotten to eat in the constant adventure of trying to stay sane in the depths in which she now stood.

She thought of the world she had stumbled upon so unknowingly. Of the man who had saved her from death and fates worse than that. Of his music that cascaded through his home, a place that he had more or less opened up to her. Of the stories and knowledge that were contained within its walls.

She turned and looked at Erik, sitting on the edge of the bed. He was casting her a wary look, but one of genuine concern was directly behind it. His hands were still bound, and he looked rather like a lost child. She bit the inside of her lip. "I am not as well as I had hoped."

He stood and approached her, his eyes glued to the spot where he knew the wound was. "Does it hurt greatly?" He placed his hand lightly against the bandages. She drew in a sharp breath. He pursed his lips in concentration. "Perhaps I should check it. I thought that had provided for a quicker recovery…" His brow furrowed in thought, and she remained silent before him. "Change back into the shirt and breeches I gave you for now. I will change the bandage and ensure that the stitching still holds. Then we will see."

He left her to change, and Cecily reflected on what she had just done. She felt well enough when she had risen, but when he asked her, there was a powerful nausea that overcame her. She removed the nightgown and slid into the shirt and breeches that were still lying on a chair. Perhaps she would return to the surface tomorrow.


	13. The Hunger of the Little Cat

Salut, dear readers!

I had a visit recently that might be of note to some of you. It seems that Monsieur O.G. had tired of sending notes to me, several of which I hadn't received (I love the postal service). I was coming home from work to what I though was an empty house, when all of a sudden, a voice seemed to call out to me from my refrigerator. Now, I have days that I think I'm going crazy, and that suddenly seemed to confirm it. Cautiously, I went over and opened the door. Nothing spectacular, just some leftover spaghetti. I closed it again, completely confused.

I turned around and nearly jumped out of my skin! He was standing there, in my kitchen! I had two options as I saw it: either faint dead away from fright (last time I fainted someone opened the door into my unconscious head) or squeal with delight. Okay, my mind was malfunctioning. Remember, I had just thought I heard the fridge speak, dang ventriloquist. I regret to say I squealed. It was a rather subdued squeal, if you disregard my jumping up and down.

He seemed rather annoyed and immediately told me to be still. I thought I would faint, despite my earlier choice. He was talking to me! Eee! He proceeded to sit me down and give me a stern talking to about the direction of the story. At least I think that's what he was saying. I couldn't focus on anything but the sound of his voice and the fact that the PHANTOM OF THE OPERA WAS IN MY LIVING ROOM! Deep breath.

So, dear readers, it is with much chagrin that I admit I cannot heed the Phantom's warnings, as I can't quite recall what they are. Monsieur O.G., if you by chance read this, I beg your forgiveness and ask you to email me the requests. I really am much more visual, if you get my drift ; )

Alas, I must continue this tale until such a time without his guidance. Please accept my humblest apologies.

Oh, and for those of you who wonder how he got there and how he left: I really couldn't say. He arrived before I did, and, rapture unexampled, sang me to sleep before he left. Perhaps I should disregard his instructions more often…I didn't truly mean it Monsieur!

I have so much more to tell you, but this letter is by now long, so I will put it all in the next chapter.

Until then, may you hear the music of the night in your dreams,

S.R.

---

Erik slid onto his organ bench. He laid his fingers gently on the keys, the familiar give of each one a comfort. The song that came out was slow to take form or pattern, but he filed it away in his mind to work on later.

He knew Cecily waited in the other room. He thought of her. How he wanted to feel her touch again! She had tempted him sorely the night before, and he wanted revenge. He had catered to her as he never had anyone else in his lifetime, save that spoiled little brat of a child in Persia. He had bought Cecily dresses, gave her rest, played her his music… All things that were unknown pleasures in her small world. Stolen sweets if you would, and he would have his revenge, somehow. She would somehow have to pay…

A small crooked smile played on his thin lips. He leaned forward and jotted a note on one of the countless pieces of paper lying around him. Beneath his pen, the red words that formed both thrilled and frightened him: _Poor young maiden! For the thrill on your tongue of stolen sweets you will have to pay the bill -  
tangled in the winding sheets!_

The sound of her voice calling to him in the next room cleared a bit of the haze from his mind. What was he becoming, to think such thoughts! What was that little sorceress doing to him! Still, he had to admit that the line fit well with the nature of his piece. His discomfited mind wanted to scribble out the offending words, but a larger, more forceful part of him wanted, needed those words in his opera, if only so they wouldn't have to swirl around in his mind.

He entered the room and found Cecily sitting near the head of the bed. An image came unbidden to his mind of her resting in his arms like that, but he forced it away. He put his hand to her side. "Lie down." She obeyed without question, her trust almost childlike, as many of her traits were. He unwrapped the bandage and looked at her wound. It had held, at least enough for her to be able to care for it herself. He prodded gently, trying to feel where the source of her ache was.

What he felt was not a gasp of pain. Rather, the low grumble of a stomach deprived growled beneath his hand. She looked aghast, but Erik gave her a look of concern. "You're hungry." It was more a statement than a question. She nodded anyway, and he stood up. "What a terrible host I am! All this time, you are down here with me, wounded no less, and I only give you one paltry loaf of bread! I will rebind this, and I will see what I can find in this dark place to eat. If nothing else, I will fetch a meal for us! No wonder you were feeling less than well. Certainly your hunger would do as much to weaken you as a wound!"

She smiled weakly at him. "Food is not so important. Three days can be dealt with by the body."

"But your body cannot deal with too much more, little cat." He wound the bandage around her another time, securing it tightly. "Now rest. You cannot have gotten much with me tossing and turning next to you!"

She was about to protest his leaving when he walked out of the room. She rolled back under the sheets. She would rest, as he asked, but not because she had not slept well. She had slept better that night than any she could remember. Nightmares had not touched her sleep, and she took comfort from his presence so near to her, as if he could protect her from the evils of her past. She sighed, letting sleep take her far away, hoping that the mere memory of Erik was enough to drive her nightmares away.

---

She woke a few hours later, as far as she could tell. The sound of Erik moving around in the kitchen drew her from the bed. Bleary-eyed, she wandered into the main room and stood in the doorway. Erik was just finishing what looked to be an appetizing meal, and Cecily's body reacted to the sight. Her mouth watered and her stomach rumbled, a sound she muffled with her hand.

"You rested well, little cat?" He cut the last slice of bread and slipped it onto one of the new plates he had bought. Strange, how it felt so good to spend money on things that others needed. He recognized too, that he had called her 'little cat' again. It seemed to fit her and her curiosity, and he dismissed it as another side effect of this overdose of human contact.

That's what it felt like to him, an overdose. She was a drug, one that he had suddenly been exposed to in high quantities after having a clean system for so long. But, he had to admit, she was a different kind of drug. She had never scorned him as much of humanity had, or expected inhuman qualities. In fact, she seemed to urge him toward the better natures of man. What a strange girl she was. She sometimes confused him with her kindness, others taunted him with her sensuality, and still others was so infuriating he wanted to take her life.

She was smiling peacefully at him from the doorway. She still wore his shirt and breeches, and looked almost comical in his garb. She was too short for the clothing; the shirt hung down to her knees and the pants were rolled up, showing the usually hidden skin of her ankles. Apparently Cecily was not one for modern modesty. He forced his gaze back up to her face, hoping she hadn't seen that infernal blush upon his cheek. No, he certainly did not want her to see him blush. It was such an expression that encouraged trepidation in those that saw it.

"I did." Her reply nearly startled him. It took him a moment to remember his question, but he recovered quickly.

"I went out again. I could not have you starving when I have done so much hard work to keep you alive." He knew she would think of their initial meeting and the medical work he had done for her. It was better she did not know of the times he had had to work to suppress the desire to steal her last breath. "I'm afraid I don't have a place for you to sit and eat this at a table. All my tables are currently unavailable."

Her face took on that determined expression again. He knew instinctively that it would somehow involve him. He waited to see what she would suggest now. "Erik, will you not eat with me? There is far too much food there for me alone!" In truth, she was fairly sure she could devour the entire plate without thinking to take a drink, but he did not need to know that.

She looked genuinely concerned for him, and Erik felt his resolve to make her eat alone soften. "I don't have enough chairs…"

"The floor will do fine, since you have plates."

He shook his head in amusement. How this little slip of a thing could so easily sway his mind, made great by its volumes of learning. "I suppose I could have a bit."

He carried the tray out to the main room and set it on the top step, then got a cushion for her. She cast her eyes down in pleased embarrassment at the gentlemanly gesture, accepting the cushion bashfully. He left again, returning this time with a bottle of wine and two glasses. It was a simple meal: bread, cheese and wine.

"Thank you, Erik, it looks wonderful." She bowed her head for a moment, an action that Erik could only interpret as prayer, then took a piece of bread. She bit into it as if it were the Host itself. An instinctive purr of delight escaped her as the bread settled into her stomach. He smiled broadly, the half of his face still visible displaying that rarest of expressions. She really was a little cat.

She looked up, licking the crumbs from her lips. "Erik, it is heaven! You must have some! I hate when people watch me eat as they just sit there!"

For once, Erik did not argue. He simply picked up some bread and cheese and placed it to the thin line of his mouth.

The silence that lay between them for the rest of the meal was of a kind that Erik had never before experienced. Instead of the harsh, foreboding stillness that usually surrounded him, this was an amiable quiet, comfortable in its embrace. It seemed to him that this sort of silence fit the night better. In spite of himself, Erik found himself simply enjoying the company of another human being.


	14. Swirling Nightmares

Readers:

I have just finished writing this chapter, and I dearly hope it is up to your standards. I find it amazing that humans can encompass so much emotion, and that later we can confess it to someone else. I found the information for this chapter in a note that was left on my pillow, signed O.G. as always. It snowed last night, so I cannot be sure, but I believe the paper was stained with tears. I leave you with the next part of this tale.

---

It was late. The light in the lair had not altered except for the extinguished candles, but Erik knew. He also knew, despite her stillness, that she was awake and had been since she lay down. Finally, unable to stand it, Erik rolled to face her. "Cecily?"

She moved as if in sleep, and Erik sighed in exasperation. "Cecily, I know you're awake. What is it?"

He watched her form move in the darkness. She turned toward him, her face tired and empty. "Nothing Erik. Go back to sleep."

At that moment, he wanted to touch her, to hold her until whatever pain was holding her to consciousness slipped away. He wanted to wrap her arms around her and whisper comforting nothings until the darkness surrounded both of them with its peace. Instead, he rose and went to stand next to her. "I told you, little cat, I do not often sleep. You, however, need your rest."

"Oh, Erik! Rest will not come, no matter how I woo it!" She was exhausted, he knew.

He looked at her weary body and had an idea. "And what of a lullaby?"

She looked at him quizzically. "What of it?"

"Would you like me to play for you?"

Her eyes lit up. "Would you? Oh, Erik, please!"

He smiled gently. "I will go then…"

She reached out and grabbed his hand. Stunned, Erik looked down to where her smaller, feminine hand was clutching his large, pale, skeletal one. Would this siren never stop singing? "Erik, can I watch?"

"What?" His attention was nearly entirely focused on that little bit of contact between them. He wondered if she could feel his skin burning beneath her touch.

"I mean, would it be all right if I came and sat with you? I've never seen someone play the organ before."

His eloquence deserted him. She wanted to sit with him? On the organ bench? She would be so close… "Cecily…"

She looked up at him, her eyes expectant. "Yes?"

It was those eyes that broke him down. Those pleading, wonderfully bright eyes. "I don't see why not."

She smiled broadly, with only a hint of the fatigue that had played about her eyes a moment before. She put her feet to the floor, shivering with the cold air that surrounded her. Erik reached out his hand to help her up before he realized what he was doing, and she accepted it.

She stood slowly, her side tight from the long night of lying awake. She stood to her full height, but dizziness overcame her. She wobbled a little, convinced she was finding her balance.

He watched her as she stood, concern written in his face. She had stood too quickly. Before he could think anything more of it, he felt her body come into sudden contact with his. She had lost her balance and fallen into him. He braced her up, waiting for her to push away.

She didn't. For a long moment, she sank into Erik's supporting arms, allowing his warmth to seep into her. She didn't want to move ever again. She could already feel the nightmares that had been lying in wait retreating at the mere thought of contending with this man. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, seeking comfort where she had never found any before, and was quite sure she never would: in the arms of a man.

Erik stood stock still as she pulled closer to him. Her hands were on his chest, and her head was pressed into his shoulder. He held her awkwardly, as one might a dandelion when it was white with seed. Everything within him wanted this moment to never end. The feel of her hands, the warmth of her breath, the softness of her skin… She was driving him mad!

He pushed her away, terror rising in him. She was a siren, no, Circe! She would have him as an animal if he weren't careful. Still, he could not go back on his word to play for her.

She felt herself being repelled away from him, the back of her knees hitting the side of the bed. She knew that her face was open to the confusion she felt, and she didn't care. He hadn't seemed averse to holding her only a moment before! Now he was looking at her through a carefully constructed mask of duty. What sort of creature was he that thought he could treat her as carelessly as a child's doll! She took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling, willing the tears from her eyes. Well, two could play at that game.

"Come, I will play for you."

She wanted to resist, to laugh at him or be cruel, but she could feel the things that filled her dreams with terror approaching. He turned and walked out of the room. He did not offer her a hand, she noticed. She followed him silently through the lair, each step chilling her. He sat on the organ bench, leaving enough room for her to sit without them having any contact. She sat grudgingly and watched as Erik's long, lithe fingers pressed gently on the keys.

A pipe organ is hardly an instrument associated with a lullaby, but Cecily felt as though Erik was receiving a favor from a dear friend in its gentleness. She watched as the music emerged from the long brass pipes above her, each movement of Erik's hands creating a different combination of notes. He started simply, but gradually the song grew more complicated. He had lost himself in his music, and Cecily felt herself following close behind.

She closed her eyes, allowing the chords he played to invade her very soul. The music painted pictures before her, pictures of the south of France, the countryside. Of endless vineyards filled with ripened grapes. Of children dancing with play in front of their home. Of a couple in love, watching the children with a vaguely protective eye. Of a lover's arms wrapped around her as they sat on the grass. Of his lips on hers. Of her hands brushing over his face, her fingers disregarding as a fact of life the mask that lay below them…

Her eyes burst open, her breathing not at all even. A mask on the face of her lover? What was coming over her? It must be something in the music that made her think like this! Surely it wasn't her own mind. She shook her head, praying he didn't hear the rapid thumping of her heart. She had nothing to worry about; he was deep in the thrall of his music.

She sighed. He was trying to help her sleep; the least she could do was aid him in that effort. Squeezing her eyes shut, she leaned against his shoulder, doing her best to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

---

Seven stories above, seven-year-old Christine Daae was crying herself to sleep once more. She wanted more than anything for her father to come, but short of that, Christine would settle for the angel that had so recently visited her. She remembered the sound of his soft voice. He had music like her father.

She was beginning to give up hope when she heard it. The music seemed to be coming from up around her bed. Her eyes grew wide and she looked tentatively beneath. There was nothing. She smiled, thinking that her angel must have sent it to comfort her. She fell into a deep sleep, remembering her father and his violin.

---

Cecily's sleep was not dreamless, although what the dreams had been about she couldn't recall the next day. For the moment, the real world could not touch her. She moved anxiously in her sleep, her hands defending her from some imagined adversary.

Erik was roused from his reverie by the feel of her hand on his face. Without warning, she clawed out at him, flinging the mask from his face. He stood shoving her to the ground beside the bench. He pressed his hand to his deformed skin, screaming in rage.

"Damn you! You are a siren! You lure me in, then rip it away! You are a little prying Pandora! Did you want to satisfy your damned curiosity about my face? Look, then, you little viper!" Reaching down, he grabbed her chin harshly, causing wretched memories of the last time someone had done that to come rushing to her mind. He forced her face toward his now uncovered face. She had her eyes squeezed shut. "Look!"

His voice was bellowing, and Cecily was trying her hardest not to obey him, but his grip was becoming increasingly strong. "Look at me, or are you too afraid of this monstrous thing to open your eyes? Damn you to hell! I'll break your neck you little gypsy! Look at me!"

His hand slipped lower, his hand closing off her wind pipe. That broke her resolve. She opened her eyes and stared open-mouthed at him. His face was warped, to be sure, but that was not what horrified her. It was his eyes. Those eyes that she had adored were now filled with a fearful insanity. They were hell-bent on seeing her punished for whatever it was she had done.

She had woken up when he stood and began to rage against her. His mask had come off, and she wished she knew how. Apparently she had done it.

His hand tightened again when she met his maniacal gaze. "I should strangle you right now, you whore of a gypsy!" His voice was no longer booming, but low and threatening, and Cecily wanted to disappear.

She felt her strength waning as the last of her oxygen was used. "Erik!" she managed to mutter.

It was that single word that froze him in place. His hands pulled away and the madness left his eyes.

She was crying silently, the marks on her neck swollen and angry. Oh, his nightmare was living! He tried to back up, but he collapsed onto the organ bench. Her eyes met his, and a sensation that he had never before known began to creep through him. He fought it with all his strength. It was guilt. It seemed to him as if she was suffocating him with this new feeling, and he would not give in. His eyes met hers again, and he felt a thick, leaden knot settle in the base of his stomach. He writhed in anguish, unable to break away from her gaze. She stood slowly, her eyes cautious and fearful, tears spilling forth as she fought for every new breath.

She stared at him, her pain emanating from somewhere deep inside her. What had just happened? She saw his hand clutch the left side of his face again, and realized he was still without his mask. She grasped it and stood. How strange that this little scrap of leather could hold so much power over this great man. Damn him for letting it control him! She could still feel his hands around her neck, and she had the sudden urge to throw it into the lake.

She slammed it down on the bench beside him. "You fiend! It was not your face that frightened me!" Cecily turned and ran. She ran into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, ready to defend herself against him if she had to. Then she collapsed into a corner of the bedroom, waiting for him to continue his attack. He never did. She huddled there, sobs wracking her body until morning.


	15. Anger and Regret

Readers,

This chapter has proven the hardest to write yet. Forgive the length; another chapter should be posted as soon as I can get it typed (after homework). I'm also sorry for how long it has taken me to post this. Again, I hope to make amends for it soon. Thank you for your reviews and for the awesome readership. There are no better readers in the world than you.

Until next time,

S.R.

---

She didn't know what happened to him that night; all she knew was the fear that gripped her chest like a vice, making it feel as though her heart would burst. That night proved to be one of the longest she ever experienced. The adrenaline that surged through my veins has blurred her thoughts as she cried. She cried until she thought no more tears could possibly come, and then tried to stifle her sobs.

What had become of Erik? Who was the madman whose face she had seen? Surely Erik, the man who had saved her life and treated her so well, would not suddenly try to kill her! But those eyes! She knew the look in them, the look that men with no conscience had about them.

But when she squeaked out his name, it had passed. He backed away from her as if she was poisonous. What sort of madness was this? Had she given her trust too early? "Erik," she sobbed, trying to understand this new side of the man. "Erik…"

He had fled after she had left him. What had he done? His hands were burning as if held in a fire. He had tried to kill her! "Cecily! What a mad beast am I! I have let you stay too long! Oh, mad Erik! Thinking that I could finally have her trust, perhaps her companionship! And I have killed it! Assassin! You were trained for it and it overcame your mind, you beast! Cecily! Oh, little cat! This wretched face…" He slipped down into a tunnel he hadn't used in years. He leaned against the wall, trying to dull the burning sensation in his hands.

He had tried to strangle her with the very hands she had bandaged! What sort of monster was he? Hours passed, doing little to soothe his wretched soul. Despite his reservations, he knew that he had to return, he had to show her back to the surface. Back to the world with people who would laugh with her and dance and eat and sleep. Not with one who would try to kill her. He had to get her away! She was driving him mad!

He entered his lair and waited just outside her door. He heard her sobs, and the painful constriction in his torso grew worse. He heard her utter his name. It did not hold the same trust, the same care that it had held. It was a name in a graveyard, cold and gray and dead.

When he could stand it no longer, he called to her. "Cecily…"

"Stay away from me! I did nothing to deserve the last, and have done nothing to deserve it now! Stay away from me, you fiend!"

He closed his eyes and sighed. What had he expected? Give her a few hours and she'd welcome him back with open arms? "Mademoiselle, I thought perhaps you might wish to return to the surface. As there is little chance of you finding your way out alone, I was going to offer to take you to the steps."

He heard her shuffle around, then saw her through the doorway. She stood back, brandishing the knife like one experienced with such things. "You will take me back? You will not hurt me?"

The knot in his stomach filled with an aching tension. "No. No, I will not hurt you," he whispered.

She came out, still holding the knife toward him. "Then let's go."

"You're in your nightgown, mademoiselle. Perhaps you'd wish to change."

Her eyes narrowed. "I cannot very well stay on my guard and change my clothing all at once, can I? This nightgown will do. Let's go. And if you lead me into a trap, may it be on your head forever!"

His face settled into a cold mask, as ironic as that seemed. "Very well, mademoiselle. Follow me."

---

She followed behind him for what seemed like hours. At first, she held her knife tightly, making sure the point was always ready. She watched him like a hawk. She wanted him to seem evil, the demon that she had seen the night before. Anger was easy. She could hang onto it, keep it for as long as she wanted to hold the grudge. Anger led to revenge, and at least that gave an easy direction to things. Before her eyes, though, the fiendish brute of hours before was replaced by a tired, empty man.

To renew her anger, that potent opiate, she tried to picture him leading her into some dark, abandoned tunnel and killing her. Unfortunately, logic took over. It wasn't as if he couldn't have killed her in his lair, and it was much less walking for him. Damn it! She felt the anger slipping away, confusion and pity replacing it.

The man in front of her was not the monster he had been, nor was he the friend he had been. He seemed slumped, if not in posture, then in spirit. He held the torch dangerously close to him, and Cecily fought the urge to run over and tip it away from him. She had seen the guilt in his eyes, but that had betrayed her before. She could not believe that he was so easily a man in the mask and a monster without. It wasn't possible to be so divided. Was it?


	16. For the Repayment of Kindnesses

Salut,

Forgive my horribleness in delay, but I should be posting several chapters soon. The Opera Ghost has kindly given me enough information to draw several chapters from, so I will begin work on those soon. Again, a simple aye or nay is much appreciated. Perhaps even Monsieur O.G. will send another. One can only hope.

S.R.

---

The days passed quietly after Cecily's return to the Opera House. The sudden appearance of the wounded girl had sent rumors flying around the chorus dormitories like the thousands of flies that called the place home in the summer. Cecily thought they were very much the same: constantly buzzing around being a general annoyance. Her wound forced her to remain in the wings as the rest of the chorus practiced. Some operas could have been performed with a stiff side. This one, however, required far too much movement for Cecily to attempt.

She did her best to suppress her memories of the time she had spent below. She tried to quash all thoughts of the man who had so suddenly become a monster. The thoughts of his beautiful music, soft words, and awkward kindnesses were forcefully put away from conscious thought, but they could not be held back for long.

Nearly two weeks had passed without a sign of the Opera Ghost to anyone. Even the ballet girls had begun to change their whispers from his pranks to other matters. Cecily, as had been the case since her return, alternated between places on the catwalk and behind the second curtain. She watched as the youngest set of dancers worked with the ballet instructor, Mme. Giry. They worked with her only twice a week. Most of the time their instruction was given to one of the older ballet dancers, and their behavior seen to by whomever was assigned to watch them at the moment. Each girl, some no older than six or seven, though most were older, tried to balance on one foot as Mme. Giry counted.

Only a few girls accomplished the feat. One, Mme. Giry's daughter Meg, stood with her leg out and her arms holding her balanced, a strong imitation of the older girls. She had grown up in l'Opéra after all. The second that stood out to Cecily was a young girl with curly brown hair. She had a rather forlorn look upon her face as she tried to imitate Meg. A pout came to her small face, which did not make her look at all appealing. Finally, she managed to hold the position. A triumphant, almost haughty smile came to her face when little Meg lost her balance and knocked several girls over domino style. Mme. Giry scolded the shamed girl as she lifted the other girls to their feet.

Cecily shook her head and turned away. Poor girl. She moved without the stiffness that had at first plagued her, and she moved toward the stairs that would carry her toward the catwalks, another place she could watch the goings on of rehearsal without being in the way. She had taken the first step up when the rough voice of Joseph Buquet stopped her. He was chief of the flies in more way than one, thought Cecily as she noted the rather repugnant odor of old alcohol and sweat about him. She wrinkled her nose, trying to be inconspicuous.

"They'll be repairing that walk today. Best not try it." His breath wafted toward her in foul, and, she imagined, nearly visible puffs.

She smiled at him, holding breath while he spoke. And some of the girls were taken with him? "Thank you, monsieur." She turned to retreat into the dormitories.

"Oh, come now, Cecily. We know each other better than that, now don't we? All this nonsense 'bout calling me by my last name."

Her smile faltered. "I am sorry Joseph." The name sounded odd to her; she didn't really know him that well.

"It's all right, little one. Come on, I'll show you a far better place to observe the goings on of the opera." The sound of those words, 'little one,' was amiss coming from his stinking lips. And his offer of a new place to watch the opera sounded ominous at best. Still, she felt herself being herded toward an old hallway. "You never told anybody where you got doctored up." She looked up quizzically. "We all know you got a knife blade stuck in ya."

"I see. Well, it's none of anybody's business where I was taken care of." She tried to move past him, but he had a firm hold of her elbow, just enough to restrain her without seeming to be improper.

"I'm just saying, those noble dandies might help you out now, but they'll want some repayment for their kindnesses, if you know what I'm saying."

She wrenched her arm from his grasp. "And what sort of _repayment,_" she spat the word, "will you be requiring for this _kindness_, monsieur?"

He was about to respond when a noise in the shadows drew his attention. He moved toward it warily. "What was that?"

"Probably just a rat."

He shook his head. "It was too big to be a rat."

Her eyes, so much more accustomed to the darkness than his, scanned the shadows.

---

Erik pressed into the shadows, covering much of himself with his cloak, the blackness hiding him from unfriendly eyes, particularly that wretch Buquet. He cursed himself silently for stepping on that board. He had known it was squeaky. He felt Buquet draw closer and prepared to move quickly. He had backed into a corner, no secret passages within reach. Damn!

It was the voice that he heard next, the last voice he would expect to protect him, that gave him his chance.

---

Cecily saw the cloak pulled over his form, the one she had thought was too skinny for his own good. A flash of a white mask before the cloak moved into place confirmed her belief. It was Erik.

She barely had time to think. "Joseph! I just heard something again! There in the corridor!" She pointed, trying to play the frightened little opera wench. "It was like the sound of a cloak!"

Buquet straightened, relishing his newfound role of protector. "You best head back toward the stage. I'll go see what it is. I would hate for a pretty soul like you to get lassoed by the ghost."

He took off in the direction she had pointed, leaving Cecily alone with the figure in the shadows. She stood in uncertainty, not knowing whether he had come back in his duties as the Opera Ghost, if you could call them duties, or to finish her off.

---

Erik listened as Buquet retreated, but noted that the second set of feet did not move. Gradually, he lowered his cloak, only to find himself staring into her face. It was chilled, like a marble statue somehow brought to life. She never spoke a word, and neither did he. He nodded, melting into the shadows away from the light, away from the bustle of the surface world, away from her.


	17. White Lies and Red Roses

My dear readers,

I have little to explain this chapter, and I thought perhaps you would like to know the latest word I have received from Monsieur O.G. In my humble opinion, I think he is getting more comfortable with me. Here it is:

_Mademoiselle,_

_Do not be so stunned when you read this letter as you were at my last visit to you. It was rather humiliating, I would think, to be seen jumping around speechless like a giddy little girl. So, as I said, do not be stunned into silence. Did you honestly think that I had left you for good? I have enclosed several more documents that could be of use to you, if you are wise. And so, a few instructions before you begin the next installment in this tale. Never again, I repeat, NEVER, allow anyone but yourself to read what I write you. I have grown quiet tired of the endless fawning of those who think that I am in reality a "misunderstood lovable teddy bear" as I believe one of your less desirable acquaintances put it. A teddy bear! The Phantom of the Opera! What nonsense. Mad girl! Secondly, you must update on a more regular basis. I know now that your schooling is at a short break, and I hope you take full advantage of it. _

_Your humble servant,_

_O.G._

_P.S. Beware, mademoiselle, or I may have to visit you again._

All I can say is: One can only hope he will follow through on his threat. (To Monsieur O.G.: only the one about visiting, please!)

The Opera House was at its busiest, which, to Cecily, meant its best. Costumers ran after members of the cast who had to have one last fitting, stagehands carried props and scenery to the back wings of the stage, and chorus members desperately tried to memorize the last of their choreography. Yes, l'Opera Populaire was absolutely chaotic. It was brilliant.

Due to her injury, Cecily had become the gopher for the current production Rigoletto. Taking a moment to watch the final rehearsals, she watched as Piangi, as the Duke, seduced Gilda, played by La Carlotta. An older man, hunched into his costume to portray the title character appeared next, but Cecily was distracted. Linnea, the girl who had the bed next to her in the dormitories, was tugging urgently at her sleeve. Cecily tried to shrug off the younger girl, but Linnea was persistent.

"Cecily! You have a package in the dormitories! I was worried someone would try to take it while you were gone!" Seeing Cecily's reluctance, she added, "There's a rose tied to it!"

Cecily turned, surprised. Who would send her a package with a rose? Perhaps this was just the trickery of the other chorus girls, but she had to check. She hurried through the hallways leading back to the dormitories. Indeed, lying on her bed was a package with a rose tied to it with black ribbon. She glanced about. Linnea and a girl she barely knew were the only two in the room. It would likely never get quieter. She may as well open it now.

Slipping the rose from the ribbon, she placed it to her nose. It still smelled fresh. She smiled into the flower. Whoever had sent her such a thing had done so with care. She gently set the rose down on the table next to her and picked up the package. It was soft and large. Cecily peeled back a corner and looked down.

She nearly dropped the parcel. Inside were her torn dress and the one Erik had given her. She thanked heaven there was no note she needed someone to read. How would she explain that one?

Seeing her strange reaction to the package, Linnea came over. "What is it, Cecily? Do you know who sent it to you?"

Time for a white lie. "It is a dress, but I do not know who sent it to me."

"You're lying, you fib! Now I can see it's a dress, but you do indeed know who it's from. Who… Oh! It's from the one who got you a doctor! Oh, Cecily, is he your new beau? That would be delightful! And to afford such wonderful material…He must be rich! Oh dear, you have rich, handsome, wonderful man who adores you! Tell us all about him!"

At the mention of rich, several other chorus girls had entered the room and were gathered in a little circle around Cecily. She was trapped. She sighed. "All right, I'll tell you about him, but first I want some time to myself to finish looking at what he's given me. I'll be back soon." Reluctantly, the other girls let her push through them. They knew they would get nothing out of her now, and that she would indeed tell them when she returned.

Cecily ran to the stairs. She had no real reason to, but her feet moved her there. Clutching the package in her hands, she thought of reasons he might have sent it to her. Simply returning what was hers came to mind, but why care about her things if he wanted her dead. He obviously didn't want her dead. He had been alone with her and had simply disappeared without a word.

She slumped against the wall and opened the package completely. Within was indeed the gown she had left behind in her haste to escape, as well as what was left of her first dress. "Why did you send this to me, Erik? Are you still Erik at all?" Suddenly she knew she had to find out, even if it cost her life. Her curiosity would not be sated by simple conjecture. She had to see him again.

She lay the parcel in a corner, knowing that no one would come down here, and started down the steps. She recalled Erik's advice to remain on the edge of each step, and noted with amusement the faint cracks indicating a trap door. She half wished to step there to find out what lay beneath. She knew better. The man that had tried to kill her with his bare hands might well have lay some other deadly trap. She shuddered, but continued.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she followed the corridors as far as she clearly remembered. She had no desire to be caught in this endless labyrinth alone, so she called out. "Erik! Erik, are you here? If you can here me, I need to talk to you! Why ever did you send that dress to me? Answer me! Do you realize how much gossip you've stirred up around me now? Erik, I need to talk to you! How will I ever be able to satisfy their questions without giving us both away?"

"I'm sure you will think of something, mademoiselle." He noted with some pleasure that his disembodied voice made her jump. It would make anyone jump if they didn't realize what was going on. "Why have you come here?" The voice seemed to be emanating from within the stone wall.

She frantically searched the corridor. Then she saw it, one crack was wider then all the others. She felt around it, and something gave way under her touch. When she looked back up, it was into the gaze of a masked man. "I, I, I…" Her voice seemed to have abandoned her. What was wrong with her?

"Stop stuttering. What is it?"

His rough tone had brought her from her struggle. "I simply came down to ask why you caused me so much damned trouble with that package of yours," she spat. "But I can see that I may as well have asked the stairs on the way down, from the attitude your showing me!"

"You want to know why I sent it to you?" Her anger was making him tense. How dare she come down to his most secret of places and blame him? "I sent it to you because I have no use for such frivolity. I, unlike you, do not wear the clothing of the opposite gender!"

He had meant it as a barb, she knew, but still she could not contain the smile spreading across her face. The very thought of Erik dressed in the gown he had bought her was too much to bear. A loud chortle sprang from her throat, and she giggled for a moment.

"What? What do you find so funny?" He was indignant! Not only does she accuse him, but she was laughing at him also! Damned girl!

She looked up at him as a new wave of laughter overcame her. A hat had appeared on his head in her imagination, and she gasped to explain the thought his words had released in her head. "You…women's clothes…dress…hat…look like…Ha ha ha!"

Despite the lack of clarity, Erik got the point. She had imagined him dressed in a gown and a hat. Brilliant. The fear tactic was slipping once again, this time, he felt, it was irreparable.

She looked back up at him, her mirth subsiding. She had tears in her eyes from laughing so hard. Before her stood Erik, the man. He looked sane, appeared friendly. How badly she wanted to believe he was!

"I sent it to thank you."

Her head cocked to one side, confused. "What for?"

"For preventing that stagehand from finding me."

"Oh," was all she could manage. She hated to think what would have happened if Buquet would have found Erik. There would have certainly been a fight, and Cecily severely doubted Buquet's chances at victory.

He watched her carefully. She didn't trust him completely, that was obvious. Then why had she come down here? What had drawn her? Holding back a very un-Phantom-like sigh, Erik suggested her return. "Come, I will take you back to the stairs." She nodded, following him mutely.

He showed her the foot of the stairs, with all seven stories sprawling above her. She stood there, letting the grandness of the structure dwarf her. Lord, what was wrong with her. The man had tried to thank her, and she couldn't say a thing! She felt him moving away, and blurted, "If you ask it of me, Erik, I will return." The silence that surrounded her pressed painfully inward as she realized she may have made that declaration to the stones. Sighing, she began the ascent.

"I will remember." Her pause told him she had heard. Quietly, he added, "Little cat."


	18. Steps

Salut!

This chapter takes place immediately after the last. I hope you enjoy it. I am grateful for all your wonderful reviews, and I would certainly appreciate any you would give regarding this portion of the work.

Merci,

S.R.

---

Cecily was grateful for the final step. The seven story climb was too much; Erik certainly had to have a better way to get around. Besides, the stairs were too open. She knew he had another way. She would have to ask him if she ever saw him again. That was a frightening thought. She hoped she would see him again. She had enjoyed her time with Erik, until he had snapped. Somehow, that mask he wore was connected to his sanity.

She groaned softly as she stooped to pick up the paper containing her dresses. She was getting too old to be running around the Opera House. She was almost twenty, practically the oldest chorus girl in the dormitories! She shook her head, smiling. She was certainly well on her way to being an old maid. Not that she had had much of a chance. Her debutante years hadn't exactly been spent in the finest circles.

The moment she slipped back into the dormitories, she was mobbed by younger girls anxious for her to hold up her end of the bargain. They had left her alone for a time, now she had to confess. Linnea was the first to corner her. "Come on, Cecily! You promised!"

Collapsing onto her bed, she sighed. What was she going to tell them? She certainly didn't have a real beau. Oh well, she would romanticize. The girls were anxious for a love story of any kind, and even if one half of it wasn't real, what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. She sat on the bed, feeling years older than she had a few days ago, a much younger than she had climbing the stairs.

"Well, I suppose I did promise. So what would you like to know?"

One girl, a ballet rat, shouted out, "What's he look like?"

Cecily took a deep breath; the masquerade began now. "You get right to it, don't you? Oh, he's handsome enough. He's got dark hair and the greenest eyes you've ever seen. They seem like they stare right through you." She trailed off. Why was it that the green eyes she was describing seemed to dance in front of her minds eye, at once comforting and unnerving.

"Is he rich?" Veronica, a rather vain girl who was trying not to look interested, asked.

"He has money, but doesn't live extravagantly. He lives in a simple house, with only the people and things he needs to care for the grounds and such."

Linnea pressed her hand for her attention. Cecily looked down at her. This girl was closing in on the age when the Opera's wealthy male clients would begin to look at the chorus girls differently. Several of the girls didn't deserve a second look, but Linnea would probably get several courting proposals. Cecily only hoped they were from good men. "Cecily, what is he like?" Cecily wrinkled her forehead in confusion. "I mean, what does he like to do? Surely he doesn't rescue damsels in distress all day?"

The other girls tittered, and Linnea looked genuinely pleased with herself for her joke. "No, I certainly believe I hold that sole honor. What does he like to do? He, um…" Her mind raced. She had not expected a question about the man himself. Most of the girls only cared for what impacted them: wealth, looks, and family. She bit her lip. Not too long a break, or they would guess at her game.

"He plays music." The words leapt from her mouth. It shouldn't have surprised her; the only man she had every really cared to know was obsessed with it.

"Music?"

"He plays the organ and the violin, and loves the opera."

"Does he come here?"

"He prefers anonymity to the parade that the Opera is on performance nights. If he comes, he doesn't tell anyone." She bit her lip again. This was getting too specific. She hadn't realized she was describing Erik until just then, but she couldn't press her luck. Not that an association with the Opera Ghost was likely to be the first thing that came to their minds.

Another girl began, "What about…"

She never finished. The imposing figure of Mme. Giry swept into the room, sending all the ballet rats scrambling for their shoes. "What is going on in here?"

The girls all had the look of startled mice. Cecily sighed, drawing attention to herself. She stood slowly, facing the ballet mistress. "Forgive me, madame, if I was keeping them from practice. They were inquiring about my absence."

Mme. Giry considered her for a moment, then turned back to the girls. "My girls, the bar is waiting for you to practice your exercises. Particular attention to battement fondu développé. Go!" More than half of the girls shuffled out of the room. "The rest of you, M. Reyer has called an impromptu rehearsal."

There was general grumbling as the other girls moved toward the door. "You mean that Carlotta wanted to practice now."

Cecily moved to follow them, but Mme. Giry stopped her. "You're Mlle. Pencombe, are you not?" Cecily nodded, obviously bemused. "You were unable to be in this production, oui? Well, I am in need of a girl to watch over the younger ones. M. LeFevre has agreed to pay you for the service, at least until you work again. You will agree, non?"

Cecily stared open mouthed. "Say something girl! It is not a difficult thing, oui or non?"

"Oui, madame. What would I have to do?"

"Watch over the younger girls for me. You would have to make sure they go where they are supposed to, do not get in the way, are in the dormitories at a reasonable hour…"

"What happens when I can again be in the operas?"

"We shall see. So you will accept?"

"Yes, madame. And thank you."

"You are welcome. I should warn you, though. My daughter Meg is in the troupe you will be watching over. She and her little companion Christine can be quite the pair, I tell you." A rare smile passed across her lips. "I need to be getting to my girls. I will talk to you this evening. A tout a l'heure, mademoiselle."

After Mme. Giry left, she looked down at the note with the red seal tucked into her belt. "I dearly hope you're right about her, monsieur."

A voice she never heard, almost less than a whisper, replied, "As do I, madame. As do I."


	19. If I Ask It Of You

The 'impromptu rehearsal' seemed to last for hours. Cecily, alone in the dormitories, set about straightening up the room. She straightened wrinkled sheets, picked up out-of-place ballet shoes, and slid unmentionables out of sight. Lord knows what such things would set off in the men's minds if they were to walk in and see them. Finally, she set herself to her own bed. She would be moving out, into another dormitory, the one that held the girls she would be watching over. She gathered everything in her sheets. She didn't have much, only a few changes in clothes and some vanity items. Everything else she needed could be procured when the time came from the various departments within l'Opera.

She had bundled up everything except the package Erik had sent her. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she slipped out of her frock and into the dress, which was luxurious by comparison. She couldn't help but smile, and she spun childishly. She loved the feel of spinning. Even in the most confined spaces, those tight, quick circles made her feel like she was flying. When she stopped, she reached out for the bedpost to steady her swirling head.

She stood there for a moment, breathing deeply, enjoying the moment. Suddenly, she heard her name being called. Her eyes snapped open. The sound seemed to have come from within the bedpost, but that was certainly impossible. She turned, trying to find the true source of the voice.

"Cecily…" It came again, this time from under the bed. She had to stop herself from bending over to assure herself there was no one there. There wasn't, she was sure, and she wan't going to make a fool of herself stooping over to check.

"If I ask it of you, Cecily, will you still return?"

Cecily's breath caught in her throat. It was him! What could she say? She couldn't turn him away; she had given her word. Neither could she simply leap up and wait for him to lead the way. Swallowing thickly, the words came slowly, but seemingly of their own accord, "Do you ask it?"

"I do."

"Then I will return." Her throat was suddenly dry, the words scratchy and empty. Where was he?

She was looking for him when she heard his voice again, closer this time. "Then come." He was direcly behind her, his hand extended as he helped her through a passage that most certainly had appeared out of the paneled wall.

As the door swung closed behind them, utter darkness surrounded them. Cecily's stomach tightened painfully, and she squeezed Erik's hand, moving close enough behind him to feel the trail of his cloack.

He felt the pressure on his hand, and turned to make sure that she was well. Even with eyes adjusted to the dark, there was no way her vision could penetrate the blackness surrounding them. She still dwelt in the light. But what had caused the sudden burst of fear? Surely it wasn't the darkness itself? It had to be him. But why then draw closer to him? Did she truly fear the dark?

He reached his other hand over and placed it on her shoulder, walking next to her through her tunnel. She leaned into him, feeling his movements in the darkness. She tried to absorb his confidence, the strength and familiarity with this place that he exuded. Surely there was nothing that would harm her here. Of course there wasn't; she was being silly.

At the sound of a scurrying rat, she pressed closer to him, clutching his arm like a lifeline. "What was that?"

"Only a rodent, my dear. It is far more frightened of you than you are of it."

She snorted disbelievingly. "I doubt it. Well, I'm not really all that scared of rats. Normally they don't bother me, but…"

He turned the both of them making the final descent to his lair. "It's the dark, isn't it?"

She hesitated, nodded, then remembered he probably couldn't see it. "Yes."

He slid away another panel revealing the music room. He sprang lithely down, a good four feet to the floor. She sat on the edge and slid into his aiding arms.

"I have never understood the fear of the dark. There is nothing there in the dark that is not present in the light."

She paused on the steps and looked back at him, the record of her inner debate etched into her face. "Exactly."

He wanted to press her as to what she meant, but the look on her face warned him against it. For a moment, he simply stood and watched her walk through the rooms. She was tired, he could tell. It was strange to him still, despite her visits, having this girl in his most sacred place. He felt the urge to ask her to come more often, but wasn't sure how to go about it.

She ran her fingers over the leather covers of the books on the shelf, and he was struck with an idea. "Cecily?"

She turned to him, her fingers lingering on the dusty shelf. "Hmm?"

"Would you like to learn to read those books?"

Her face was filled instantly with a guarded hope. "Why?"

"I thought perhaps you would like to learn, and it is a skill I have."

"You would really teach me?"

He nodded. He must not let her know that he craved her presence as much as she desired the knowledge in the books. "If you would return down here from time to time, I will spare some time. What do say to that?"

A smile slowly broke over her face. "Thank you so much, Erik! I don't even know what to say!" She ran over to him and threw her arms around him. He shifted uncomfortably, and she released him, suddenly awkward herself. "Thank you, Erik! I will come back here as often as I can."

She didn't know that there were no words he would have rather heard.


	20. Learning

Fondest greetings!

This is a short chapter to span the time gap that passes between the last chapter and the next. It is simply to give you an idea of what Erik and Cecily have become in this time. For this chapter, I used yet another new source delivered to me by the Phantom. Alas, I did not see him, nor can I yet tell you what source this is. Hopefully you shall know soon.

Your obedient friend,

S.R.

---

Time passed. Cecily and Erik both kept their word. She returned often to his lair, and he taught her to read. After the first year, she could read and write basic French, after the second, she was fluently reading some of Erik's hardest works, and writing responses to them on nearly the same level. Nearly every waking hour was spent below ground, poring over books, digging for another unknown fact.

Erik watched her silently as she read. She was curled up in a chair against the wall reading The Man in the Iron Mask, flipping the pages with a surprising rapidity. Beside her lay its predecessor, The Three Musketeers, Les Misérables, and hhha copy of Jean de la Fontaine's fables.

He should have been composing, and had begun to do so, but found his mind muddled and too full to distill his thoughts into music. He smiled when she closed the novel and added it to the pile of her finished books. "Done so soon?"

She looked over at him, startled out of some train of thought. "I've been reading that one for a whole two days, Erik! I should have finished hours ago!"

"I wonder if you realize how quickly to read. You read and write French nearly as well as I do."

"Ah, but Erik, you also read and write Russian and English, and know medicine and numbers and all sorts of things I can barely even dream of."

"Would you like to learn these things?" Erik was relieved for the suggestion. He had been worried that once she exhausted his library, within a few months at her current rate, she would stop visiting, and he would be left alone again.

She smiled over at him, a comfortable, friendly smile. The two of them had spent so much time together, it would be impossible to not be at ease around him. "You know I would, Erik."

"Well, then, little cat, you shall learn. What first?"

She paused for a moment biting the right side of her lower lip like she always did when she was thinking. "Math and Russian."

"Both?"

"For my reading lessons, Russian. I can read about the math in French, and have you help me when I need it. I think it will work, don't you?"

"I wouldn't put it past you, Cecily." He rose gracefully from the organ bench and walked to the bookcase, pulling out a large volume with markings that Cecily didn't understand.

He motioned her over to a table and sat the book down in front of her. "Now here, the Russian alphabet, called the Cyrillic alphabet, has thirty-three letters, twenty being consonants…"

"And thirteen vowels. See I can already do some of the math."

He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "Yes, well, that would be right, if it weren't wrong."

"What?"

"The Cyrillic alphabet has twenty consonants, eleven vowels, and two letters that don't stand for sounds. Now look here…" So began the first lesson in Russian, which Cecily acquired nearly as quickly as she had French, although her writing of it lacked for quite some time. Math followed, and in time she could do the long architectural equations that Erik set her to.

Erik watched her work with pride and a bit of admiration. She certainly was a fast learner. She was dedicated too. All the time she did not spend in practice or performing, she managed to escape through one of the many passages Erik had shown to her and visit his hideaway. It sometimes seemed that she was in his home more often than she was in the dormitories. When her duties to the younger ballet girls kept her from coming, she put them to bed and came during the night. Neither she nor Erik ever thought that those night visits would one day prove dangerous.


	21. The Cast List

The entire chorus was buzzing with anticipation over the posting of the roles for the upcoming production of _Il Trovatore_. Soldiers, nobility, and gypsies turned happily away from the board, their names having been found next to acceptable roles. Among the crowd, Linnea followed Cecily as she pushed her way through the men and women who had gathered in front of it.

Cecily ran her finger down the list, pleased once again with the fact that she could read it for herself. "Come on girl! Get up here, I don't have all night!" She grabbed Linnea's hand and pulled her through the final crowd of chorus members. "Look at this! You got the seconda donna role! I knew that voice of yours would get you somewhere!" She turned and hugged the younger girl soundly, congratulating her on her victory.

Linnea squealed and looked at the list to prove it to herself. She jumped up once and squealed again. "I did! Cecily, I did! I got it!" She looked back at the list. Cecily had taught her to read passably and write the basics. She scanned the rest of the list to the bottom. Cecily's name was nowhere to be found. She turned to Cecily, unsure of what was happening. "You're not here."

Confused, Cecily joined her next to the list. A moment later, she burst out laughing, the deep belly laugh that Linnea was used to hearing from her. "What? What is it?" Cecily pointed to the list, three slots above Linnea's name. Linnea gasped. "Cecily! You're Azucena! You're the prima mezzo-soprano! How! What!" She joined her friend in surprised laughter.

"Looks like they finally found me out! I'm an old gypsy witch after all!" She stepped away from the board, letting others see who they placed at. She glanced up at the clock that ticked heavily against the wall. "Oh dear! I've got to go Linnea! Those ballet girls never are in bed on time unless I tie them there! Congratulations! Good night!"

"Bonne nuit!" Linnea laughed lightly as Cecily bounded off into the darkness. "Fabrizio!" She called to the baritone of a single season. He hailed her and made his way through the crowd. "Well done on winning the role of the Count of Luna!"

"Linnea, siete bei, come sempre!" He kissed her hand and smiled at her. Both of them knew she didn't understand Italian, but they played this game often. "Grazie. What role will you take? Surely you play Leonora, eh?"

His broken French made her smile, but she shook her head. "No, Fabrizio, not her. I am only Ines!"

"Ines is good role! I am happiness for you! Soon, you is prima donna always!"

"La Carlotta would die!" she laughed. "Alas, I do not get to play the woman the Count wishes to marry."

Fabrizio's face took on a serious note. "Be not sure of such things, mia cara."

Linnea blushed furiously as he kissed her hand again. "Buona notte, ragazza graziosa." She stood still in the middle of the shifting crowd, watching as he walked away.

"Good night, Fabrizio."

---

Cecily was hurriedly putting the girls to bed. The chaos of setting the girls in their places was worse than the gathering around the cast list. She did one final count and sighed. A bed was empty. "Has anyone seen Christine?" It would not be the first time that Cecily had had to go down to the chapel to drag the girl to bed. That girl honestly spent more time in the chapel praying for her dead father than she did with her living friends. Not that Cecily was angry at her for her prayers; she just wished that they would end on time for bed.

Meg Giry piped up. Meg was truly a help at times. She was level headed and kind, but still had the innocence of a little girl. "She's at lessons. Momma said to tell you, but I forgot. Sorry."

"It's all right, as long as she's where she's supposed to be. Good night, girls. I'll be back later." A chorus of good nights followed her out as she extinguished the last of the candles. She couldn't help wishing that the dormitories were fitted with Erik's gas lamps. There were so many candles to put out every night!

She closed the door to the room and walked away from the noise of the chorus. She had to tell Erik about her part! Prima mezzo-soprano! It was amazing!

"Cecily! Where you goin'?" She turned. It was Joseph Buquet, and he was obviously drunk. Well, more drunk than usual.

"Nowhere." She couldn't exactly tell him she was going to visit the Phantom of l'Opéra.

"Well then, how about goin' nowhere, with me, eh?" He grabbed her arm. She tried to shake it off, but to no avail. His position as chief of the flies made him stronger than her.

"Buquet! Unhand me, sir!" She pulled against him.

"Sir! Well that's something! I like that. But come on now. You know you want to come with me…"

---

Cecily felt the stone wall. She knew it was cold, but it felt warm to her. She was cold and hard as a stone wall, and as thick as one. Everything was filtering through to her more slowly. Damn that man! Damn him to the depths of Hell!

She threw herself through the opening and into Erik's lair. "Erik! Erik! Please be here!" She sobbed, half screaming. "Please be here! I need you!" She leaned against the wall, realizing that he was gone. "Please," she whispered, tears streaming down her face as she cried into her knees.

---

"Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir, Ah! je ris de me voir si…"

"No! No, my dear! No! Nearly, but no! Again!

Christine leaned against the wall. She had danced all day, and now had sung for her angel for several hours. She was tired, and told him so. "Angel, I am weary. Can't we continue later?"

Behind the thin paneling, Erik sighed. The girl was young, and unused to such taxing of the voice. "Of course, my dear. Good night."

She smiled. "Good night, Angel."

She walked from the room, and Erik quickly followed her using the passages. He did this after every practice to protect her. There were those in the Opera House who were unscrupulous, and he had no desire to see the girl hurt. She was so innocent. She was a good girl, though. She would be a prima donna someday. He was sure of it.


	22. Where I Thought I Was Safe

Readers,

This was originally intended as the end of Chapter 21, but I felt it stood better on its own. The words to this song are credited to Marco Marinangeli. Some of you might know them as part of _Mi Mancherai _as sung by Josh Groban.

Merci et bonne nuit,

S.R.

---

Erik entered his lair late that night. He had been distracted by a fight between chorus members. One had gotten to play a soldier and the other played the hangman, they each hated their roles, and were drunk. It had taken a good punch in the jaw to each from the new Italian boy to shut the two drunkards up. The brawl had sobered the mood, and the group dispersed quickly. The boy had been left alone. "Good show, monsieur," he had called to the bewildered boy.

He laughed to himself at the sight of the young man turning around, trying to find the source of the voice.

He ceased his laughing as he entered his lair. He should write tonight. He felt the need to compose, and it made his fingers itch for the feel of the organ keys.

He was about to step into the organ room when he saw her. She was curled up tightly in a chair, staring at a book. He watched her for several minutes. She never turned a page. Suddenly, she threw the book down and groaned, curling up even more tightly.

Erik was concerned. He had never seen her like this. She looked…broken. Cautiously, he picked up the book. "Cecily, what is wrong?"

She closed her eyes, pain stealing over her expression. "I can't escape it, Erik. I can't leave the past behind. It haunts me, breaks me. It even followed me to the Opera, the one place I thought I was safe." She was empty. Her eyes held none of the sparkle they had when last he saw her.

"What?" He placed his hand on hers, and flinched when she pulled it away, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Cecily…" He tried to wipe a tear from her eye. She allowed him, then threw herself into his arms, sobbing. His heart paused at the sudden contact, but he held her as she cried, silent in his uncertainty.

"Oh Erik! Buquet! He…" she broke down into sobs again.

"Buquet what?" Erik felt the rage rising within him. If that wretch had touched Cecily...

"He tried to _hurt_ me. I couldn't get away and he was drunk and trying to get his hand down my dress and oh Erik! It was horrible. I'm going to be sick!" She threw herself away from him and ran to the lake. She gagged and Erik turned away as she emptied her stomach into the water.

His rage elevated within him. Buquet would pay for this. He knew that Cecily would never forgive him if he harmed Buquet because of this, but Buquet would be consumed by the rage that was within him now. Turning back to Cecily, he wiped her mouth with his handkerchief. She collapsed into him, crying. He lowered himself into sitting position, and held her. "Cecily, my little cat, it will pass. Shh, all will be well again soon." He knew that it wouldn't, but didn't know what else to say. So, as in all the other times he was lost for words, he borrowed those of others.

"Mi mancherai se te ne vai  
Ora e per sempre  
Non so come vivrei  
E l'allegria, amica mia  
Va via con te..."

She fell asleep as he sang, her sobs melting into the even breathing of slumber. Carefully, he lifted her off the stone floor and into his arms. He carried her into the bedroom and laid her gently on the bed. He pulled the cover up around her and sat next to the bed, still holding her hand.

"Mi mancherai se te ne vai  
Mi manchera la tua serenità  
Le tue parole come canzoni al vento  
E l'amore che ora porti via."


	23. Shadows in the Sun

Three weeks passed before the first official rehearsal for _Il Trovatore_, and Cecily was nervous like she had never been before. The shock of Buquet's attack had begun to wear off. When they had found him knocked unconscious in a back hall of the prop department, no one had thought anything of it. Cecily had only been thankful that she had been intending to return Tolstoy's War and Peace, a good 1500 pages bound by a solid cover, to Erik on her visit. If anyone would have bothered to look closer at Joseph Buquet, which his smell alone prevented, they would have noticed a scar in the shape of a perfect right angle.

Cecily hadn't seen much of Erik since the encounter either. They always seemed to just miss each other on her visits to his lair, and he hadn't visited her. Of course, she couldn't blame him. She had been so busy with preparations for her role that she hadn't been in any one place for more than five minutes at a time. Physical exhaustion had begun to set in, but the pure adrenaline that was constantly pumping through her veins kept her going. It wasn't until the night before the first rehearsal that she realized she hadn't told Erik about her role as Azucena. She doubted he was unaware, but still felt the need to tell him herself. She was bordering on giddiness after her glass (or two) of wine at dinner when she went out to round up the last of her girls before going to wait for him.

At eleven and twelve years old, her girls were beginning to take on the temperament of youth, which was not at all becoming. The stubbornness that often accompanied those years was becoming apparent in several of them, and it was a new struggle every day to get them to accept her authority. Mme. Giry had only had to intervene once, and those particular girls had never strayed again.

What Mme. Giry had warned her about when she first had accepted the job was true, however. Meg and Christine were a mischievous little pair. There was always something those two were up to. They never meant any harm, but even when things got out of control, their innate innocence and naivety saved them from the chopping block. Meg's genuine friendliness and eagerness to please made her all the more difficult to punish. Christine alone might have been disciplined, her silence and sometimes misplaced convictions made her seem much less personable than her accomplice, but her association with Meg had saved her more than once. There was something about Christine Daae that Cecily just couldn't put a finger on, something that made Christine seem a little bit dangerous.

Cecily laughed at herself. Christine, a twelve year old girl, dangerous? She really must have had too much wine. She was seeing conspiracies in honesty, and shadows in the sun. She shook her head and continued along her path. There was still nearly an hour before the girls had to retire, but Cecily wanted to ensure that they were all well aware of the time.

Meg Giry rushed past her, face aflame. "Meg Giry! Where are you going in such a hurry?"

Meg paused. "I was on my way to the dorms, Cecily."

Cecily put her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Whatever has happened? Either you've run a mile or you're a bit embarrassed. Which is it?"

Meg shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I didn't just run a mile."

"Ah, so embarrassment it is. What happened? Did someone say something to you?"

"Not _to_ me…"

"You were eavesdropping." She smiled down at the girl, who was now staring at her right shoe as if was the most interesting thing in the world. Cecily bent down conspiratorially. "Who of?"

Meg looked up, a little surprised. "Christine." Cecily said nothing, only raised an eyebrow in question. "Well, she's been off at lessons nearly every night, and doesn't get back until late, and she's singing beautifully, and I just wanted to see who was teaching her like that. I thought she might have a beau."

Cecily laughed. What was it about the Opera cast that stirred the idea of a beau anytime someone didn't feel like explaining an absence? She shook her head. "I doubt it, Meg. I don't think Christine has a beau. If she did, she wouldn't keep it from you; she can't keep secrets. Besides you two are practically sisters. Set your mind at ease, child. I'm sure she's just at lessons. But I am going to give that teacher of hers a piece of my mind. Keeping her out so late after she's danced hard all day! She needs to be getting into bed on time! Do you know where she is?"

Meg nodded and pointed down the hall. "Three doors down on the left-hand corridor. The door's locked."

Cecily smiled at her once again, knowing that Meg had been trying to do more than eavesdrop if she knew the door was locked. "Thank you, Meg. Now, on your way." She watched as the girl hurried down the hall, feeling only slightly better. Oh dear. Now she had to go confront this voice teacher of Christine's. Oh joy unbounded. Forgive her if she wasn't ecstatic.

She entered the left-hand corridor and began down. As she did, she heard traces of music on the air, not an unusual occurrence in l'Opéra. As she drew nearer, she realized the music was familiar. The song was from _Faust_, one of the operas Erik had played for her. The voice was that of a girl, but with a maturing edge, a good fit for the fickle role of Marguerite. She paused for a moment outside the third door and listened.

"Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir,  
Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir,  
Est-ce toi, Marguerite, est-ce toi?"

Cecily nodded in silent appreciation. The singer had potential, to be sure.

"Much better, my dear. You seem to have it correct. Let us move on then."

Cecily felt the wind rush out of her as surely as if someone had put their fist into her gut. She clutched at the wall and leaned heavily against it, trying to make sense of what she had just heard. The words were nothing extraordinary. They were the words of a music teacher to his student. But the voice had belonged to someone she knew. The singing girl was Christine, she realized, and the other voice….

The other voice belonged to Erik.


	24. Rather Like a Dance

Readers,

I received an interesting piece of mail this week, in addition to the wonderful reviews sent to me by all of you wonderful people! I'm sure you know by now what type of mail warrants mention in my notes, and I will, as is my tradition, include portions of it.

_Mademoiselle,_

_There have been many stories that endow me with characteristics and skills that I do not possess. I do consider myself one of the great geniuses of this world or any other, but, alas, I have not yet had the opportunity to acquire certain skills. My situation as described in all its gory detail by M. Leroux prevents my participating in those practices which require some social interaction. I may know nearly everything that can be learned by books, but I must admit in my overwhelming humility that I do not know all. Therefore, do not paint me as such a man! I am after all, a man. Not a demon, nor an angel of music…_

…_Enclosed is the requested source. These writings were not made available to M. Leroux, and I assure you that there have been few people to see them since their creation. An additional reference to this work has been provided by me, as I am sure you are not acquainted with the writings. Do not abuse the privilege I grant you in lending them to you. If you should misrepresent any portion of what happened by distorting the words, I shall assuredly make a visit to you, one that would not be as desirable as you seem to have found my last visits. _

_Mademoiselle, I implore you to comply. I have grown rather fond of observing your life, and would hate to see it come to an abrupt end, if you take my meaning properly, which I'm sure you do, as I have made myself fatally clear._

_Sincerely,_

_O.G._

These are the portions of the letter which I believe will neither give away too much information nor cause Monsieur O.G. any undue discomfort. He indeed made himself fatally clear. My neck would like to remain rope-free, so I will faithfully interpret what was so graciously provided for me. You hear that, Erik? Don't go all "Down Once More" on me! I am not a fop!

Ahem, sorry about that. I get a bit defensive when someone issues a not-so-thinly veiled threat against my life. For those of you who read the following portion and do not believe it happened thus, I assure you that Cecily acted this way according to my sources. Her recorded thoughts on this are few, however, so her justifications for her actions are vague.

Without further ado, Chapter 24!

---

Cecily bit her lip, barely stopping before she drew blood. So Christine's teacher was Erik. How dare he not tell her this! Of course, why should he? What business was it of hers? And why did she feel so betrayed? It wasn't as if he had sworn that she would be the sole occupation of his time. It had just been that way for so long; it was strange for her to think that he and Christine were… What were they?

Surely they were only a student and her teacher. She was too young to truly develop a friendship with him, and she highly doubted that she could have kept such a secret as knowing the Phantom of the Opera to herself.

Suddenly, she turned and knocked on the door. Loudly. "Who is it?" came Christine's soft reply. She was nervous.

"Cecily. It's nearly time for bed, Christine. And I'd like to talk to your teacher about keeping you out so late."

She heard the clicking of the lock and the knob slowly turned, opening the door to reveal a very tired Christine. "I'm alone here, Cecily. You'll have to talk to my teacher some other time."

Cecily looked around the room, her eyes resting on the paneled wall. If he could see her, he would now know that she knew he was there. "Very well. I suppose my ears were playing tricks on me. You were singing very well Christine, but from now on, you need to be in bed on time, all right? Tell your teacher that if he has you late for curfew again, he will be facing a very irate chorus girl. That should be sufficient fear to have you in bed on time, don't you think?"

Christine laughed. "Yes, I think it would be. I'll be going to bed then, Cecily. I'm awfully tired."

"Yes, dear, why don't you run along? Make sure all the other girls are in bed on time. I have some errands to run and probably won't be back until much later. You and Meg are in charge. If you need anything, Linnea will help you, I'm sure." Christine nodded and scurried off down the hallway toward the dormitories.

Cecily stepped into the room and bolted the door behind her. Staring at the paneled wall, she hoped against high heaven that he was still behind it. "Erik?"

Nothing. "Erik, are you still there? I know you were."

"Why did you interrupt us?" His voice was harsh and accusing, and Cecily flinched mentally. He had never spoken to her like that in all the time they had been friends.

"She is tired Erik, surely you can see that! Her eyes had such dark circles that she looked like a raccoon! She has a beautiful voice, but she will die from exhaustion if she has to dance all day and then sing with you all night! And you know very well that Mme. Giry will never let that girl out of the dance troupe."

He scoffed. She approached the wall and put her hand on the switch, the panel shifted under her hand and she pushed hard against it. It wouldn't move. "Erik, let me in. There is no point in keeping me out here." No reply. "Erik! Stop being a child! Not even the youngest girls throw such tantrums!" She pounded her palm against the panel, which gave way sharply to the pressure, nearly causing her to lose her balance.

"As you wish, mademoiselle." He turned away from her, retreating down the long tunnel to his lair. She grabbed his arm and spun him around. He faced her, his eyes aflame with indignation and surprise. "What do you think you are doing? You tread on dangerous ground, little cat."

"What did I do that was so wrong, Erik? When did looking out for my charge become a crime against you? Don't do this to me! Please!"

The word pulled sharply at his heart, and he sighed. "I'm sorry, Cecily. I lost my temper. You know how hot it is sometimes. I suppose having a student simply is trying my patience."

She nodded, not mentioning the fact that she had been his student for years without pushing him this close to that dangerous edge she had only seen him fall over once. She squeezed his arm reassuringly.

They walked together silently the rest of the way to his lair. When they arrived, he pulled out two goblets. He poured wine into one, but paused before filling the other. "Wine, little cat?"

She shook her head, feeling the remains of the alcohol euphoria that had filled her minutes before. "Water, please, Erik."

A moment later, he joined her in sitting on the steps as they sipped their drinks. Despite the fact that he now had enough chairs cleaned off to accommodate the both of them, she still chose to sit on the steps. He had never asked why, and she never offered an explanation. It was simply comfortable for both of them.

"So you are teaching Christine to sing," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes, she had true potential."

Cecily nodded, sipping from her water. "Her voice fit the piece well, even if it would never be performed that way in front of an audience. She will grow into it, I think."

"She will."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes. Finally Cecily was unable to stand anymore of the pressing quiet. "Have you seen the cast list for _Il Trovatore _yet?"

He nodded slowly. "I saw the chorus list. Christine got a part. It is her first operatic performance, even if it is only in ballet." He met her gaze. "But I am sorry, Cecily."

Cecily shook her head and smiled. "Erik, why would you apologize?"

He looked at her questioningly. "You didn't get a part in the chorus for the show."

"No, I didn't, but you've no reason to apologize for that." She loved this taunting, this game of cat and mouse.

He looked at her carefully. She was hiding something. He had been busy the last few weeks, but now felt that he should have at least spoken to her. She obviously didn't want him to know she was upset. That would be just like her. He tentatively placed a gloved hand on hers. She didn't pull away. "Cecily, I know what disappointment is. You can't protect me from it by hiding yours."

He pulled his hand away, and for a moment, Cecily understood disappointment in a new way. Her hand felt cold and useless, sitting there at her side. She stared at it for a moment, then raised her eyes up to his face. "Erik, I…"

He didn't say anything, silently urging her to continue. "I didn't get a part in the chorus," she stated, and she inwardly flinched. How much of a dolt could she be? She tried again. "You didn't see my name on the cast list because you only looked at the chorus."

"What do you mean, little cat?" His eyes had taken on a new light as he guessed her meaning.

"I'm going to play Azucena, she whispered excitedly.

Erik's face seemed filled with happiness. "Truly? That's wonderful. We may have to work on your voice, though."

She took on mock displeasure. "M. Reyer thought it good enough!"

"Ah! But M. Reyer also thought Carlotta's good enough."

"Ah!" she made a noise of protest and punched him lightly in the arm. "You're cruel!"

He chuckled. "Я говорю только быть сказанным."

"You? Say only what needs to be said? Hmph." She stood up quickly and walked away from him. By the organ bench she stopped and turned around. She tapped her foot impatiently. "Well, come on then."

"What?"

"Are you going to help me sing?"

He chuckled and stood up. "Of course, mon petit chat." He arranged himself at the organ. "Let's begin with warm-ups."

---

Several hours later, neither of them had realized that they had entered the wee hours of the morning. Erik had pointed out several things to work on, and she had agreed with only a little protest here and there. He had switched from practicing high operatic repertoire pieces to lighter, more easy going songs. She had stopped singing and was sitting against the wall, listening peacefully.

He eased from one song to the next, this one a country tune similar to the one Cecily had played. Her eyes popped open when she heard it, and she stood up. He paused, wondering what she was doing. "Don't quit, Erik," she chided. "This is a fine dancing tune, and I simply refuse to sit this one out!" She smiled and spun around, laughing. "Play!"

He did, but kept only half his attention on the organ. She was dancing giddily. The late hour was playing its tricks on her. She spun and swayed to the music, humming it herself. He noticed that she was wearing the dress he had bought her. The music became more difficult, and he returned his attention to the piece. He froze when her hand brushed his shoulder.

"Dance with me," she said. It wasn't a command, but a simple request. Erik still had trouble getting used to that.

He stared at her, only reminding himself to close his jaw. "There, there would be no music…" he stammered.

"I can hum." She bit her lip, suddenly realizing a potential implication. "You do know how to dance, don't you?"

"Of course I do!" he said indignantly. "It is simply that I've never danced with a, a…" he trailed off, unable to finish what he had been about to say.

"A woman?" She said it softly, as if she was prompting a child.

He let out a rush of breath. How did she always seem to know what he was thinking? "Yes."

"Please dance with me, Erik."

Erik found himself rising as Cecily lifted his hand in hers and placed the other on his shoulder. "Now place your hand on my waist." He fumbled for the right place. She smiled and readjusted his hand, moving it down a few inches to the correct position.

She began to hum and move her feet. Erik followed hesitantly at first, but the beat was a steady three-quarter beat, and the pattern was fairly simple.

She noted his growing confidence. She had expected it of him. His natural grace and affinity with music made her think he was a born dancer. It was a pity he had never gotten to practice it before now. As he began to predict her steps, she let him take the lead. She smiled and moved a half-step closer to him as they waltzed, continuing to hum the tune.

The song trailed to an end as Cecily grew tired. She relied more and more heavily on Erik, and finally he stopped the dance. "You need sleep, little cat." He was loath to let her go, to allow the soft cure of her gown to escape his touch, but she was almost too exhausted to stand. "Come now, you need sleep." He led her to the bed and helped her lie down.

"Erik, I can't," she protested weakly. "The girls…And I have to practice early…"

"You will be there; do not worry. Goodnight." He walked toward the door as she burrowed under the covers. He paused and turned back to her. "And thank you."

She wrestled exhaustedly with the covers. "For what?"

"For teaching me to dance."


	25. Through a Slip of the Tongue

Readers,

This following chapter is fairly short, but contains some vital information, so do not disregard it. I apologize for the brevity of it, and sincerely hope to have the next installment posted soon. Thank you to all those who continue to review.

S.R.

---

Cecily woke the next morning in her bed. Erik never ceased to amaze her. He had somehow gotten her all the way up here without waking her up. She sat up and felt like she had been hit by a train. The tiredness had crept its way into every part of her being. She set her head in her hands, trying to siphon off some of the pain she felt there.

"Oh, Cecily, you're awake. Meg told me you'd come in quite late, or should I say early?" Linnea smirked as she walked across the room. "Here, there's another package for you. It was waiting for you this morning when we gathered for rehearsal."

Cecily sat bolt upright. "Rehearsal! Did I miss it? Oh no! What am I going to do? They'll replace me and then Erik will…" She clapped her hand over her mouth, realizing with horror what she had just said.

Linnea raised an eyebrow. "Erik? Is that his name then? I've been wondering for years. Every since that little disappearing trick you pulled a few years back, you've been making midnight visits to someone, and someone is teaching you to read, right, and do figures, and someone is sending you packages. It seemed like an awful lot of someone for you to not tell me about him." She laughed at the angered blush creeping up Cecily's cheeks. "Oh come on, Cecily, don't take it so hard! I was only poking fun. Now to this package of yours." She set the small box down in front of Cecily, whose head was steadily worsening.

Cecily pried it open, knowing somehow that Erik had sent it. Inside was a smaller package, this one labeled "Drink Me." She smiled. Erik had known she was reading Alice Through the Looking Glass, and this was a way of letting her know he was still there. Attached was a note.

_You stayed up far too late, little cat. This will help the aches and pains that come with such late-night gallivanting. Although your company did not mind in the least. _

_Erik_

Cecily smiled and went to tuck the note into her pocket, only there was no pocket. She was in her nightgown! The blush that had been fading renewed itself in earnest when she realized that someone must have changed her into it during the night!

Linnea, misreading Cecily's expression, took the note and read it over. "Although your company did not mind in the least," eh? What were you two doing that makes you blush so?"

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," Cecily sputtered a bit too quickly.

"Hmm, nothing. I see. Well, about that rehearsal, you didn't miss it. Apparently, Carlotta and Piangi had late nights, too. They refused to come to rehearsal until after lunch."

Cecily cringed as she swallowed the contents of the vial Erik had sent. The taste was nearly as revolting as the thought of Carlotta and Piangi. She shuddered.

"What was that?" Linnea asked, picking up the now-empty bottle. "Drink me?"

"It was for my headache."

Linnea quirked an eyebrow at her. "He knew you were going to have a headache? Exactly how long were you with Erik?"

She flinched as she used his name. She had to convince Linnea never to speak of him to anyone. What had she done in telling her his name? "He seems to know everything about me. And for your information, I was with him until about three." She got up and hastily changed into a dress. "Linnea, promise me something."

Linnea had busied herself making Cecily's bed. She sat down on it and looked up at her friend. "What?"

"Don't tell anyone about him. He's really very secretive, and I don't want to upset him. Besides, I'm not even sure what to call him. I really don't think you could even call him my sweetheart or anything, so don't go spreading that rumor. I'm glad someone finally knows, in a way, but I can't have anyone else knowing. Please."

Linnea listened quietly and nodded sagely. "Alright. He's your man; I'll keep your secret. Just promise to tell me something about him when you work yourself up to it, all right?"

Cecily smiled and quickly agreed. To her surprise, the action didn't increase her headache. "God bless that man," she muttered under her breath.

"What?"

"God bless that man. His headache medicine really worked."

Linnea stood up and let out a whoosh of breath. "Well, that's good because you've got a full day ahead of you. I was sent to pull you down to the costuming department where the two of us are going to get measured for our decadent apparel. After all, when one achieves a certain role in the opera you get certain amenities." She laughed. "As if we'll get anything more than rags."

Cecily shrugged. "That's all I'm supposed to get, being a slightly crazy gypsy hag. So let's go, my dear."


	26. Unexpected Helpers

He found her pacing in the corner, reciting barely intelligible lines. He stood for a moment watching her. "Stupid Italian opera! Why can't all operas be written in French? Stupid Italians!"

He laughed, making his way toward Cecily, who looked up in surprise. "We are not all stupid, mademoiselle."

"Fabrizio! I, I didn't mean…" Cecily bit her lip in frustration. "It's just that these words are so close to French they should be easy, but I can't seem to pronounce them. After several weeks of rehearsal, you'd think I could pronounce them at least reasonably well."

"You like help?" The young Italian man had already relieved her of her libretto and was mumbling words to himself.

"I suppose I should get some, thank you."

He smiled, and Cecily understood what Linnea had been telling her. Linnea was desperately in love with Fabrizio di Cicina. She babbled endlessly about him when the two young women were alone. It was odd for the two of them to speak like schoolgirls about such things; both were far older than the traditional age of marriage. Then again, much of the chorus was made up of such girls.

"Here," he said, motioning her to look at a particular line. "'Stride la vampa! - la folla indomita  
Corre a quel fuoco - lieta in sembianza.' Si?"

She looked down at the line. "Stredi la vampa…"

"No, 'Stride la vampa!' Try."

"Stride la vampa…"

"Si! Bene! 'La folla indomita…" he motioned for her to follow.

She sighed, a bit perturbed by the childishness of it, but knowing she had to repeat. "La folla indomita…"

"Corre a quell fuoco – lieta in sembianza…"

She repeated the line as well as she could. For several minutes, Fabrizio pored over the libretto, carefully enunciating parts that he thought would give Cecily problems. Finally Cecily stopped him.

"Fabrizio, thank you for all of your help, but I'm not sure I could remember anything else!" She laughed, and he laughed with her.

After a moment, the laughter faded, and his face grew earnest. "Cecily, I ask you question?" Cecily nodded, curious. "Linnea is your friend, si?"

"Yes, why?" Fabrizio took a deep breath, but no words seemed to find their way out of his lips. "Fabrizio, forgive my bluntness, but do you love her?"

That breath came rushing out. His face was the picture of youthful longing. "Si. I love her. I want to, eh, to… Desidero sposarlo!"

"You want to marry her, so why are you talking to me?"

"You think she say yes?"

"Fabrizio, if she says anything else, I will drop dead when I find out."

"True? You make me very happy, Cecily."

She smiled at him as he hurried away. "I try!"

She shook her head. She hoped that he would ask soon. Looking Linnea in the eye while she rambled about how she thought he didn't think of her as anything more than a friend would be increasingly difficult as time went on.

"Cecily! Come here!" It was Mme. Giry, who was standing in the doorway to her quarters. "I wish to speak with you."

Cecily followed Mme. Giry into her room, allowing the woman to close the door behind her. "What about Madame?"

"Two things. First of all, you need to practice your dancing for your part. While not ballet, precisely, there is still a bit of dance you must learn for this. I will practice with you early tomorrow morning."

"Very well, Madame."

"That means no late night escapades tonight." She gave the younger woman a look that clearly read: I know what you were doing last night. Cecily tried vainly for a response, but Mme. Giry prevented her. "And in case you were wondering, which I'm sure a girl of your _propriety_ was, he did not help you change last night. I did."

"You?" Cecily closed her hanging jaw rapidly.

"Yes, me. He and I are acquaintances. You have no need to worry about any indecency; I assure you he left the room before I changed you."

Cecily was flabbergasted. "Thank you, Madame." She paused, unsure of her next words. "I can assure you that I will be well-rested for tomorrow's rehearsal. What time?"

"Five in the morning. I will see you then." She rose, showing Cecily out the door. "And my dear, if you have any need to speak of him, bring it only to me. No one else."

Cecily nodded, then walked swiftly out the door. This day was becoming ever more interesting.


	27. Broken Dreams

Readers,

Forgive my tardiness with the last update! I did not realize it had been so long since I posted. My sincerest apologies. This chapter is distinctly lacking in Erik, but all is not over. Thank you for your constant indulgence; I hope I repay your kindnesses in decent writing. Zut alors! I ramble again.

Adieu, fair readers, until next chapter.

S.R.

---

At four fifteen the next morning, Cecily made her way to the practice bar to stretch. She moved silently, so as to not wake those who could sleep in on this, a rare day off for the chorus. The room was lined in mirrors, and Cecily held herself straight as she lifted her leg to the bar. She had not danced properly in a long time. Chorus movements were one thing; the choreographed movements flowed somewhat naturally. The exacting grace required by dancing was more difficult.

She stared at the mirror, allowing her thoughts to drift as she tried to loosen muscles she had forgotten she possessed. Her thoughts flew to the last time she had danced, two nights ago with Erik. She allowed herself to imagine his hand at her waist, spinning her across the floor. She twirled lightly across the wooden floor.

"Cecily!" Cecily stumbled and fell, a dart of pain shooting up her leg. Meg ran over to her. "Oh, I'm so sorry Cecily! I didn't mean to startle you! Are you all right?"

Cecily propped herself up against the mirrored wall and took a deep breath. "It's all right Meg. It isn't your fault; I'm the one should have been paying attention." She tried to hop up on the leg that wasn't pulsing with pain, but fell back against the mirror. "Help me up, will you?"

Meg eyed the already swelling knee dubiously. "Maybe I should get Mother…"

Cecily rearranged her skirts so the disgusting swell of her leg wasn't visible. "Meg…"

"Cecily…" The simultaneous word came from Mme. Giry's mouth. "What happened?"

"I fell while warming up."

"Let me see it." Mme. Giry peeled back the skirt and flinched, a nearly imperceptible motion on her taut face. "Meg, get Monsieur Ollinard. And bring some cold wraps. Go!"

Cecily looked up at the older woman. "How bad?"

Mme. Giry didn't meet her eyes. "We shall see."

Cecily's entire body froze. She would not be able to dance! She would not be able to play her part… Her stomach turned within her at the thought. She had worked so hard! It wasn't fair! She wanted to rage at something other than blind fate, but there was nothing more to it. Meg had intended no harm; if anything, the blame fell squarely on Cecily's own shoulders.

She allowed herself to be carried back to the dormitories. Fabrizio lifted her carefully into his arms, a concerned Linnea hovering close behind. Cecily smiled briefly at the thought that two of them must have been together to both be here so quickly. A pulsating pain wrapped itself around her knee then, and she grimaced, all thoughts leaving her mind except to desire to control this pain.

Fabrizio set her down on the bed gently, and the sadness in his gaze nearly broke Cecily's heart. His eyes spoke volumes of understanding, but Cecily could not determine where such empathy could have come from. Linnea sat with Cecily for awhile, until the doctor came, but said very little. She tried to be happy, but both of them knew what this injury meant: Cecily would probably never move the same again, and without being about to move, she could not perform. Being of no use to l'Opera Populaire, she could easily be turned out and replaced by someone who could fill the position.

Monsieur Ollinard, the resident medical help, came and confirmed Cecily's greatest fear. She would never dance again. The others eventually had to leave her, morning rehearsal being ready to start. Cecily leaned against the wall in anguish, pressing her head against it in an effort to drown out the pain and the noise of the busy rehearsal. Over all the rest of the noise, she heard it, clear as a bell. The new prima mezzo-soprano, her former understudy, was singing, clear and beautiful. The words that had been so difficult for her rolled off the young woman's tongue like sweet water, and Cecily listened, if only to give her something to focus on.

"Stride la vampa! - la folla indomita  
Corre a quel fuoco - lieta in sembianza;  
Urli di gioia - intorno echeggiano:  
Cinta di sgherri - donna s'avanza!"

The woman continued her song, but Cecily was no longer listening. Her rage had fuel enough. She groaned wretchedly and slammed the back of her hand against the wall. Without another thought, she stood up. It was strictly against orders; she was to remain off her leg for a day or two. She rummaged through her trunk, pulling out the nightgown Erik had given her, one she hadn't worn in ages. It was far too elegant for common use in the dormitories, but Cecily was bound and determined not to give in to the sinking feeling that was engulfing her.

"I will not stand idly by!" she hissed to herself, slipping into the gown and back into the bed. "I will never stand by again! I promised myself! I promised Sophie!"

Sophie. She had not spoken that name in years; she had barely even thought it. Pain rushed into her, but not from her knee. She bit her lip hard, tears that she refused to let fall turning into blood on the inside of her lip. She barely noticed the new cut, so lost was she in memories. With a forceful shake of her head, Cecily brought herself back to reality. She would not think of Sophie or any of them. She could not.


	28. No Regrets

Cecily slept fitfully that day. The noise of the bustling opera was not conducive to much sleep. That evening, she begged Mme. Giry for a more private room. "Please, Madame, it is not that I mind the people, but I don't truly want my misery to have company, if you understand."

"I will see what I can do. For now, read. I see you read all the time. Now is a good time to employ that skill. Stay busy; it will help." Mme. Giry had gone without another word.

Cecily had grabbed a Russian book from inside the trunk. "I really should be learning something else," she muttered to herself. "One of the operatic languages." She paled when she realized she would soon have no use for operatic languages. The only language that would likely matter would be market French, so she could buy and sell. She sighed, setting the book in her lap. What was she going to do?

"Прощальный старый друг. Goodbye old friend." She knew that things would never be the same. She wasn't even sure who she was talking to. Perhaps she spoke the words to the walls of the Opera House. Such walls held secrets, deeper secrets than Cecily could discern.

She drifted into sleep again, the medicine for the pain, pushing her softly into a dreamless sleep.

Several hours later, Mme. Giry found Cecily busily scratching away in a blank book. "Cecily?"

Cecily looked up, apparently noticing the ballet instructor for the first time. "Mmm?"

"One of the staff rooms is available. M. Lefevre has given his permission for you to stay there for the time being. It is a bit out of the way, but I didn't think you'd mind. The quiet will be peaceful to you compared to the din in here."

"Thank you." She moved to stand, but Mme. Giry placed her hand heavily on Cecily's shoulder.

"You are not to rise." It was a command in the same voice she used to instruct her ballerinas. There was no room for negotiation. Cecily sat back down. "I will send Fabrizio in a few moments. He and Linnea asked about you."

"Sweet of them." Cecily watched as Mme. Giry left. She then swung her legs over the side of the bed, flinching when her knee moved awkwardly. She grabbed her prop cane and leaned heavily against it, lifting her weight off her bad knee. She was going mad sitting in the bed, and it had only been one day. She could not imagine weeks of such immobility.

She was hobbling down the back hallway toward the open room when she was scooped up. "What the…?"

"Mme. Giry said you are not to walk. I carry you, si?" Fabrizio had the concerned look he had worn earlier.

Cecily ceased her fighting and let him carry her. "Si," she grumbled. "You know what this is like, don't you?" Fabrizio gave her a questioning look. "I can see it in your eyes. Why do you, of all people, understand?"

Fabrizio nodded in comprehension. "You lose your moving. You do not know the future. Maybe bad, maybe good. You are scared."

"How do you know?"

"You hurt your knee; I danced too. Five years ago, I was hurt in my, eh, hip? I lay there, as you do now, and thought my life was over. I thought that everything would change for bad."

"What happened?"

"I never danced again. I returned home, where I began to sing. I sing and I sing, I always sing, until my voice is stronger than my hip ever was. My life change, si, but it is not a bad thing. I sing in opera, I come here, I meet you!"

"And Linnea," Cecily teased, chuckling at the crimson blush that crept up his cheeks. "Have you asked her yet?"

"No." There was fear in his voice.

Cecily felt for the young man. He was only four or five years younger than she was, the same age as Linnea, but it seemed like an eternity sometimes. "Fabrizio, you helped me by telling me what you know. Now listen here. It's terrifying to love someone, particularly one you're not sure loves you. But part of love is the risk. You have to be willing to take a risk for the happiness of the person you love. Is it possible that Linnea would be happy marrying you?"

"Si," he replied hesitantly.

"Than shouldn't you take the risk of making her happy, even if you are frightened?"

"If she wouldn't be? What then?"

Cecily pursed her lips in resignation. "Then you know for sure. Don't waste what you have for something you can never have. Don't live your life wishing you'd done something you didn't do. No regrets." She spoke the last words to herself.

Fabrizio did not reply, which was fortunate, because Cecily was lost in her own world. The entire time she had been in that dark little room with one slot for food and water in, empty dishes and waste out, that had been her mantra: No regrets. She had chanted it to herself for days on end, until they were the only words she remembered the sounds of. She could still form words, but they all sounded foreign to her. "No regrets" was her native tongue, and the impact of the alteration was irrevocable.

She had blocked out every opening of the door with silent screams of "No regrets!" Every entrance made her know it was a lie. There were always regrets, always choices unmade. The what-ifs haunted her mind for those five years. At the same time that Fabrizio was wondering what would happen to him after losing dance, Cecily was wondering what would happen to when she was finally free, now that she had lost herself.

Fabrizio laid her on the bed and must have said something in departure, but Cecily never noticed it. She had told Fabrizio to have no regrets, but that was a fantasy of youth. Regrets were unavoidable, as were memories. You could try all you wanted to run away to escape, to prevent, to hide, to protect from them, but you couldn't.

"No regrets," she muttered to herself.

As a child, Cecily had been alone. She was constantly surrounded, but so alone. Her father and her sister were her rays of light, but one had disappeared and the other was weaker than she was. She had not been born into that emptiness, but it had consumed her nonetheless. Time had taught her how to laugh in her loneliness and pain, how to find a path to tread in the worst darkness of soul. She had learned to stifle her dreams to protect herself from the rest of the wretched world. Everyone she should have been able to trust had abandoned her to the terrifying wilderness of her life. She had learned that she was unlovable, but the only thing she hadn't learned was how to be content with herself as a sole companion.

"No regrets."


	29. Survival Instincts

Readers:

I was working on my English paper after my last post when Erik demanded that I complete this next chapter. He insisted that I have been slack in my writing, and that I should only make amends by posting another chapter. Who am I to refuse the Opera Ghost? (She has before - O.G.) Shut up, Erik! I hate when he steals the keyboard from me. In case you were wondering why Erik is sitting next to my computer, it is to ensure that I do finish this chapter on time. I have a bad habit of beginning a chapter when he demands, then turning to other things as soon as he leaves. So he sat next to me the entire time. (Not that I minded.) (Insolent girl, she thinks that I stay for her. She is lucky that I let her bask in my glory - O.G.) Erik, if you don't stop stealing the keyboard, I will never get this posted. Now leave me be! Do any of you know how good it feels to tell off a rather intimidating, talented, (hot), genius assassin and get away with it? Well, if you don't, it feels pretty dang good. Particularly since I used part of his punjab lasso to make a prop for drama class.

Oops, shouldn't have typed that. Gotta go take apart the prop before he freaks out again. Erik is very possessive. He seriously needs to get a grip, but he is particularly attached to that lasso and the mask. I will never pull a Christine and steal the mask though. That would be insanely dumb, knowing what I do about his temper. All right, Monsieur O.G., you can stop standing over my shoulder, now. I'm posting.Besides,you're kind of scary when you're reading my computer screen over my shoulder.

Anyway, I'll post again soon.

Your obedient servants,

S.R. and O.G.

---

Erik was making his usual rounds of his opera house. He was angry. Christine had not been working as hard as she should have been on her scales. Her voice was not bad by any means, but it was not improving as he knew it could. He could form it into the most glorious voice ever to touch men's ears, but she had to work at it! Something in him whispered that she was only a girl, but he cast it aside. Youth was no excuse.

His temper had been ill enough that morning before rehearsal. When, from his post in the rafters, he had heard that Veronique D'Avignon singing the role of Azucena, he had simply boiled over. The falling sandbag precisely next to the girl had not been an accident. Mme. Giry knew that, as did several other key members of the opera house staff, but the girl was convinced it was good luck that it hadn't hit her. Foolish girl! Where was Cecily? Why hadn't she been singing her role?

He was on the way to the dormitories to ask exactly that when he heard muffled cries coming from a bedroom that had long been vacant. He changed course and hurried to the room, if only to see what was happening. A girl was lying on the bed, a pillow pressed over her mouth as she screamed. The screams gradually turned to tears, and she removed the pillow in order to breathe.

"Cecily…" he breathed in shock. What was she doing here, alone? And what was so wrong that she had been screaming?"

A long string gibberish came from her mouth as she brought herself under control. "Erik, I know you're here. Come in."

She watched as the figure in black seemingly walked out of the wall. The soft light of the candles near her bed cast softly over him, reminding her of an image from an opera performed long ago. The scene had been of a girl who was locked into her room by her family in lieu of her upcoming wedding, a day which she loathed. The locked door and high walls had not deterred her lover, however, and he had appeared on stage, a mask covering his face, waiting to take the young woman in his arms. Yes, the light made the two look very comparable.

"You found me." It was a statement, not of surprise, but rather of expectation. She had had no doubt that he would know where she was soon enough.

"What happened? Why did you not sing today?"

Cecily grimaced, and Erik noticed the well-checked tears that floated in her eyes. She pulled back the covers and lifted her gown up to her knee. She did not even think about the impropriety of it. He had seen her with her shirt lifted, so why should a knee matter?

He simply looked back up at her, his eyes full of concern. "What happened?"

"I was dancing. Mme. Giry said my part required dancing, so I was warming up. I was startled and fell. The doctor said that I tore a ligament. I don't even know what that means."

He removed his gloves and laid his hands gently on her swollen knee. "It means that the fibers that connected this bone," he touched her shin, "to this bone," he touched her thigh just above her knee, "are broken. Depending on which one and how badly the tear…"

"I will never dance again," she finished sadly.

He wiped away a tear and stood up. "You should not stand on that knee for a week."

"A week! The doctor said three days!"

Erik shook his head. "I will make sure they leave you until a week has passed. You must not stand on it." This was a command from the Opera Ghost. One did not disobey the Opera Ghost.

"All right," she said grudgingly, "but you can't expect me to lie here like a dead rat all week. They're all busy with rehearsals." She paused, unwilling to actually make her request.

"I will visit you, and you will visit me."

"How am I supposed to do that? I 'must not stand on it', remember?"

"Like this," he said, disregarding her accusatory tone and lifting her from the bed. He paused to ensure the door was still locked, then walked into the passageway. "Put your arms around my neck," he commanded, "so that I might have a free hand if I need it."

She obeyed, wrapping her arms tightly around him as he slid the door shut. Once again, she was left alone in the utter darkness of the passageways, and she pressed her face into his shoulder, letting herself dissolve into his strength. If she was not herself, her memories could not haunt her.

She breathed him in, the scent of burning candles and ink. It was a pleasant smell, comforting in its familiarity, possessing in its simplicity. She looked up at his face. She could see nothing of it except that looming white mask. She closed her eyes, allowing her memory to fill in what her sight could not. His strong jawline, his fair skin, the green eyes that pierced like sabers, the radiance that emanated from him when he played his music.

A fear that had never possessed her now took hold of her heart. She had realized that not dancing meant leaving the opera house, but only now, in the arms of the one dearest to her heart, did she realize that it meant leaving Erik too. She could survive losing her livelihood; she could always find another job. But she could not leave her heart behind, and as surely as Erik held her body in his strong arms, he held her heart. Without her heart, she would survive. She had to find a way to stay at the Opera Populaire. She had to stay, or she would die.


	30. The Sacred Flame

Readers,

It is short, I know, but I felt I needed to post, and a brief explanation of upcoming events had to be presented. I just checked, and I have 101 reviews as of posting! Thank you to all my wonderful people, and to quote Sally Field, "You like me! You really like me!"

The song quotes in this chapter are not mine, they belong to Ronan Hardiman and Frank Musker, who wrote this song, "La Fiamma Sacra (The Sacred Flame)", for the opera band _Amici forever_'s album Defined. I highly recommend it. As always, enjoy!

S.R.

---

She passed a week in constant thought of how to stay at the opera. She could not longer be on stage, that much she knew. She could not do anything that required lifting or careful movement; walking would be enough of a trouble. What was there in the opera house that could accommodate her?

She could become a maid. It was lesser work, but it was work, and the work staff was allowed to stay in their dormitories if they didn't have other housing. She sighed. It was the only thing she could do. She would speak to M. Lefevre as soon as she could walk.

She sat on her bed, lost in her thoughts. Songs filled her head. Music had become a constant companion since she moved to the Opera House, and thoughts of it brought back the tunes of long ago. Her father had been a violinist, she knew. He had not been great; it was a hobby, not a job. His songs spoke of everything, from funny songs about a shepherd boy and a nymph to songs so deep she hadn't understood, only felt.

"Born with the voice of an angel," she intoned, feeling the song work its way from the recesses of her memory to her lips. "A boy with the earth on his hands. For this child of the lowly fate had made other plans."

Her song took on more depth as she struggled to envision her father playing the song. His voice was a rich tenor, and enveloping sound that was the sole reason the family gathered together. Her mother only stopped her 'engagements' to listen to the sound of his voice. "He was only a man of the people with barely his clothes to his name, but when he sang, there was magic touched by love's sacred flame - la fiamma sacra."

Her memory broke there. Her father had gone away, she hadn't known why, taking his violin, his voice, his music, his love. She had forgotten song; it had abandoned her, so she turned her face from it. Time had passed in the oppressing silence. When she had come to the Opera House, it had still been noise to her, until she met Erik. "Holy fire in his soul, born to conquer the dark. A man who came – to carry the flame awakening – la fiamma sacra."

"A world of fabulous stories came to life in his song. With a gift for the whole of creation, he gave not for fortune or fame; a simple man – blessed with magic…" She could sing no longer. Her sacred flame was flickering. She feared the impending darkness with all her being. The thought of it made her shiver.

Behind the wall, Erik's chest was contracted with an odd feeling. Her song, though not sung with a diva's voice, had been beautiful in its feeling. He had been meaning to visit Cecily, to discuss her Russian and math lessons, but he could bring himself to enter the room. He raced back down the tunnels to his lair and stared at the room. It was so dark. He had not been upset with the darkness before, but now, something had changed. He entered the bedroom and began to tinker with the gas lamps.

One would always burn in this darkness, a source of angelic light to the depths of hell. He was unsure if it would torture him all the more, this reminder of the world he could not have, or if it would comfort him. It did not matter. He would not give it up for anything.


	31. Query

Readers,

Something actually happens in this chapter. Okay, so it's not as big as a five ton chandelier falling into an orchestra pit, but it is a bit more than the reflective chapters that I have been posting of late. It isn't particularly long, but it will have to serve for now. I will be out of town for the week, in Appalachia. No electronics for me, so no internet, no posting. Don't despair! There is a storyline just begging to be written when I get back.

Sorry, I had to elbow Erik right there. He has developed the habit of chaperoning my writing sessions to make sure that I get chapters done. He was wiggling his eyebrows mysteriously and laughing, and it was just really bugging me. Darn Opera Ghost. He seems so dang elusive and enigmatic and all that, but he's really just a normal guy. Okay, a normal guy who's a genius. And an assassin. And a musician. And really manly. Did I just write that? Whoops. Take it easy Erik. Put the Punjab down! Erik!

_Your author will write more when, no, if she returns. Damn! Why do all you phans seem to know to keep your hands at the level of your eyes!_

---

Cecily sat nervously in M. Lefevre's office, waiting for him to return. Her knee was fitted with an awkward sort of brace, and she was trying valiantly to hide it beneath her skirts. She had planning this for more than a week, but now that she was here, it seemed like a bad idea. She fidgeted anxiously, forcing herself to remain seated. M. Lefevre had been out when she arrived, and, having nothing to do because of her knee, she had decided to wait.

She was now reconsidering that idea. The minutes had ticked loudly by on the grandfather clock in the corner, and still she sat alone in that office. She cast her eyes around looking for something to do. There was nothing in this small, cluttered room except ledgers. Ledgers and letters to and from potential patrons. She browsed one of these and rolled her eyes. It was filled with empty words and clever turns of phrase that would release the writer from any true responsibility. She laid it back down and turned to the ledgers. Rows upon rows of numbers filled the books, and Cecily found herself engrossed in the figures. She had never before seen so intimately how the opera was run, and this glimpse was titillating. "Thirty-five thousand francs a month to Seniora Carlotta Giudocilli! I was only earning twenty-five hundred! And for her entourage! Another twenty-thousand! Good lord! She's worth that much! That's six-hundred sixty thousand a year! That's as much as the entire ballet corps makes!"

"That's good math in your head girl, but why are you poking your nose in my books?"

Cecily spun around, her knee shifting excruciatingly in the effort. "Monsieur, Monsieur Lefevre!" she exclaimed, the pain and surprise making her voice strained. "I was, I was…"

M. Lefevre brushed past her disapprovingly. "It doesn't matter. What are you doing in my office?"

"Waiting for you."

He sat down, his long coat draped out behind him like split tail. He began to scribble on another sheet of paper. "Imagine that. Waiting for me in _my_ office. Why were you waiting, girl? Come now, I haven't got all day!"

"I wished to ask for employment."

"Oh? And who told you to come here? The departments each handle their own hiring, according the numbers I give them. You'll have to talk to the head of the department. The only hiring I do is for the stage." He looked up from his work and scrutinized her. "You already work here, don't you? Yes, you're the girl that was the prima mezzo for Il Trovatore, but hurt her arm."

"Leg. Yes, monsieur, it is so, but I can no longer dance. I came to ask if there was perchance an opening in any of the support departments. I would work hard!" She bit her tongue lightly, stopping herself from rambling. "I am sorry. You already said that you are not in charge of that hiring. I will ask the proper people for the opportunity. Thank you for your time; I see that you are busy."

"Too busy," he muttered, making her pause at the door. "There is always something that seems to be left undone. It's absolutely endless."

Cecily realized that he was talking to himself and slipped out quietly. It hadn't worked as she had hoped, but there was still a chance. Mme. Rivardi was the head of the cleaning department. She would apply to her at the first opportunity.

She sighed, fighting back her worry. She had to stay in the Opera!

---

Inside his office, M. Benoit Lefevre stared dispassionately at the papers in front of him. He was always doing some piece of busy work or another. He never had time to enjoy the operas that were put on just outside his door. He had made his money to enjoy it, and now he was constantly trapped beyond a pile of paperwork, able to see what he should be doing, but never quite able to reach it.

What he needed was an assistant. Someone who would wade through the endless stream of documents that crossed his desk, leaving him to enjoy the good life. He shook his head. The requirements for such a position would be stiff. The man would have to be good in math, no difficulty with numbers. Being literate in French was an absolute must, but other languages, spoken or written, would be an added bonus. The perfect man for the job would be willing to live and work in the opera, doing all the little things that Lefevre never wanted to attend to. The perfect man for the job…

Lefevre stood up so quickly he knocked he chair over. He paused a moment to right it, then hurried to find Mme. Giry. The ballet instructor had always been helpful when it came to dealing with the staff, and he needed to find out something. He had, in that moment of fantastical wishing, realized that the perfect man for the job was a woman. A woman who had just came to ask him for a job.


	32. A Better View

Bonjour!

Forgive my absence. The majority of this chapter has been ready for a week, but there were bits that would not come until today. There is a second chapter also being posted today, one that is rather more, shall we say, involved than most of my recent chapters. Well, enjoy!

S.R.

---

Cecily stood nervously, the cane that was now her constant companion gripped tightly in her left hand. It was her first real day of work for M. Lefevre, and she was anxious not to disappoint. This was her chance to stay in the Opera House, and she would not waste it. It had been a week since she had appealed to M. Lefevre, and only three days since Mme. Giry had told her to visit Lefevre's office again.

She had filled out paperwork and passed test after test in mathematics, French, etiquette, and Russian. She had had significant help from Erik, who had informed her of the finer details of the manners of the people who utilized the Opera antechambers as their own stage. Her Russian had improved significantly since she had first started, and basic sentences were within her grasp. The Cyrillic alphabet was still foreign to her fingers, but she gradually was teaching her mind and hand to accept it.

M. Lefevre was looking over her work for the day, checking for mistakes in her arithmetic. The clock seemed to tick slowly, each one encompassing hours for Cecily. Finally, M. Lefevre closed the book with a sigh. "Not a one. You have done well. I'll read your letters tonight. I think I will take a short break, perhaps to the café. Have you eaten?"

"No, monsieur."

"Of course you haven't. You've been here. Would you care to come with me? We can discuss payment and such."

Cecily nodded, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. She bit her lip and gave one small nod to finish. "It would be a privilege, monsieur."

M. Lefevre drew his coat from the stand by the door, then reconsidered. "It is spring. I think that I should enjoy the warm weather. Perhaps we shall take my carriage down the road a bit to Les Deux Magots, eh?"

Cecily nodded again, this time slowly. "As you wish monsieur."

"You should relax a bit, mademoiselle. You have done well today. We should celebrate." He touched her forearm in reassurance. Cecily flinched unwillingly. "Ah, I see. Perhaps we should bring along someone else? A friend or two of yours?"

Cecily's eyes widened. "Do you mean it, monsieur?"

Lefevre was locking the books away in his safe as he replied, "Of course I do. Go get a friend or two. We shall have ourselves a fine lunch. Get them and meet me at the front entrance. Vite!"

Cecily smiled and hurried out the door. She wished she could take Erik, but that was out of the question. She could imagine the situation. 'Uh, M. Lefevre, this is Erik, er, the Opera Ghost.' No, she couldn't take Erik, and she doubted he wanted to go. Linnea of course would go. Perhaps if she could catch Fabrizio with her, she would have her friend or two.

As if her thoughts had called to them, Fabrizio and Linnea came around the corner, talking animatedly. "Cecily! How did it go?" Linnea asked, pausing her conversation with Fabrizio, whose French was apparently gaining in leaps and bounds.

"Well enough. In fact, M. Lefevre offered to take myself and two friends to Les Deux Magots to end the day. You wouldn't know of two people who would be willing to go with me, would you?"

Linnea clapped her hands together, then grabbed Cecily's arm in one hand and Fabrizio's in the other. "You did so well? That's wonderful! Of course, I'll go! Fabrizio can join us, can't he?"

Cecily shook her head, laughing as she pried loose from Linnea's grasp. "I was rather hoping he would." She winked at Linnea, who immediately blushed pink.

The three of them began to walk toward the entrance when suddenly Linnea asked, "Cecily, perhaps you can settle this for us. Fabrizio and I were discussing which has the better view of Paris: Notre Dame or the Opera House."

"Well, the cathedral is beautiful, but I do believe that the Opera House has it beat. Particularly the highest reaches. There is nothing in the world that can boast over that view."

It may have been something about the way she said it, but both soon agreed with her. "But Cecily, you don't go to the pinnacle do you?"

"I was there, once. It is not something I attempt everyday." She did not inform them that she had gotten there by the use of Erik's exit into one of the upper level gargoyles. "Usually I stay on the flat area. There is a gargoyle there that has a perfect seat for reading."

"You and your reading! Sometimes I think that you love books more than anything else in the world!"

"Not anything else, Linnea." Linnea gave her a questioning look, but Cecily said no more.


	33. Bound for Hell

Feeling rather full, both of stomach and heart, Cecily hobbled back to her room, clutching the cane even tighter in her weariness. It had been a good day. M. Lefevre had bought all their meals, despite Fabrizio's vehement protestations, and had engaged them all in fine conversation. She had felt rather like a fine lady riding down the street in a carriage, and smiled delightedly at the memory.

She entered her room and sat down at the small desk in the corner. She scribbled hastily in a small leather-bound book that she removed from the drawer, then replaced it. "It was nearly a perfect day."

Nearly. The only thing that was missing was Erik, and she could remedy that easily enough. She slipped out of the fine dress she wore to impress M. Lefevre and into a simple work dress. Locking her door, she grabbed her lamp and pressed the button behind her bureau. Erik had showed her where it was just three days ago, and she had yet to use it. A small door opened, and Cecily began her decent, wary of her footing in the dim light.

She pressed a second button and the door swung shut behind her. She gulped down a breath, and tried to calm her heartbeat. "Come now, Cecily, you're not a little girl anymore," she whispered to herself. "Pull yourself together! Just a few more steps and you're practically there."

Her steps were silent in the immensity of the caverns, and she hurried to reach Erik's lair. Hearing the sound of the organ, she extinguished her lamp and slid slowly onto the floor of the bedroom.

Erik was concentrating on the composition in front of him, playing a piece she had often her him pound out. It was to be part of his opera, Don Juan Triumphant. She watched him as he played, scribbled, played again. He sometimes sang, and the words nearly made Cecily's heart weak. Knowing that Erik would be startled by her voice or movement, and startling Erik was always a bad idea, Cecily set her lamp down on the table. He heard and whipped around.

"Hello, Cecily."

"Erik."

"Your day went well. I see that M. Lefevre even deigned to take you out to tea with him." The distaste Erik felt for the manager was evident in his voice.

Cecily leaned heavily on her cane as she walked toward him. The drop from the entrance had jarred her knee. "You shouldn't be too hard on him, Erik. He is a decent man, and he does his best for the opera."

Erik growled softly. "Perhaps."

She came up next to him and peered at his work. "Past the Point of No Return? This is for Don Juan?"

"Yes," he said tersely. "But it will not come! She will not come!"

"Who?" Cecily queried, suddenly worried that Erik was awaiting another woman.

"Aminta! Don Juan speaks so easily, but Aminta…" he put his head on his hand, leaving smears of red ink across his forehead. It was too reminiscent of blood, and Cecily wiped it off with the sleeve of her dress.

"Perhaps you think too much like Don Juan to write this part as well. From what you have played for me, Aminta is not a libertine like those around her. Throughout, she has thought only of joy. The one desire of her heart has been love. She is an innocent."

"If you know her so well, you try!"

He had meant it as a snub, but Cecily took her seat next to him, relieved to be off her sore leg. "Play." It was a command, and Erik grudgingly obeyed.

"You have come here," he began softly, testing the song out on another person for the first time, "in pursuit of your deepest urge…"

Cecily let herself drown in his voice. She imagined him Don Juan and herself Aminta, seeking something within herself that would help him. The deeper she traveled, the harder it became to see what she needed. She was caught up in his words, his voice. She felt the notes of the organ as the reverberated down her spine, sending chills rushing through her.

"Past the point of no return, the final threshold! What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn? Beyond the point of no return..." Don Juan's voice faded, and Aminta knew she had to say something. She had to respond to his obvious desire. She had to reply! You have brought me to that moment where words run dry, to that moment where speech disappears into silence, silence..."

A dam somewhere within her broke, sending words she did not know she possessed spilling from her lips as she confessed to the man before her. "I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why. In my mind, I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent. Now I am here with you, no second thoughts, I've decided, decided..." Beside her, she felt him turn, slightly surprise. She didn't dare look at him, not yet. The thought of what might be in his eyes was too frightening. She had to finish, then face his rejection.

"Past the point of no return, no going back now! Our passion play has now, at last, begun!" Her hand ran up his arm to his shoulder. She felt each one of his muscles tense as she touched it, the trembling echoed in her own body. "Past all thought of right or wrong, one final question: how long should we two wait before we're one? When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames, at last, consume us?" Her voice traced the music, the low note nearly disguising the now- rough sound of her voice.

The words on the page blended the two voices as one as they sang. "Past the point of no return, the final threshold! The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn! We've passed the point of no return..." His hands drifted toward her, brushing her face. She closed her eyes, the passion in his too much to bear. She leaned into him, the beat of his heart nearly as fast as her racing one. Both chests were rising and falling rapidly, breath a luxury that emotion seemingly pushed aside.

She lifted her face to his, and the briefest of kisses past between them. She opened her eyes and felt a heart-wrenching thing: she was Aminta.

He was not thinking of her as Cecily. She had become, in both their minds, Aminta, and he Don Juan. It was a testament to Erik's music that he could so ensnare the mind with just a few measures that reality was lost. Still, as Erik kissed her again, Cecily did not want to say a word. She reveled this moment, a moment she could pretend was real, a moment that contained every one of her dreams. She knew it would end, but would not be the one to end it.

She moved her mouth toward his ear, making sure her lips brushed against him as she whispered, "I am here."

One ragged breath brought Erik back from the depths of his mind. Before him sat not his Aminta, but Cecily. His music had taken her away to the world of his opera, too, and now he had to bring her back out of it. It was almost more than he could bear. She looked at him with such passion, such love. His heart gave one painful twist as he felt her lips on his ear. She kissed his cheek, then continued around, even placing kisses on his mask. How he wanted to pull away the wretched thing! But to wake her from this reverie with that horror would be an unforgivable sin.

He moved to pull her back, but could not resist placing one last kiss upon her lips. He would surely burn in Hell for taking such advantage of her. Softly, he pulled away, separating their faces and hands. "Cecily, you were right."

Her head jerked up. He knew once again that she was herself. She bit the inside of her lip, attempting to hide the disappointment that threatened to consume her. "About," she cleared her throat of the rasp that had claimed it, "About what?"

"I could not write that. You did beautifully." Cecily thought for a moment that the same passion that had been in his eyes when he thought she was Aminta graced his features now, but would not deceive herself.

"Aminta is the woman-child in all females. She wants nothing more than real love. She is even willing to deceive herself to get it." They were avoiding the topic that burned in both their brains, but Cecily had said what she needed to. She was not Aminta. She would not delude herself into thinking she could have such love here. Or anywhere.

"It is late, little cat. You must be tired after your long day. You should retire."

Mutely, Cecily nodded and left the room. Erik's eyes trailed after her until he heard the sliding of the panel. Quickly, he turned to his paper, trying to set down the words she had sung before they faded from memory. Before the heavenly feel of her lips faded from his. He was truly bound for Hell.


	34. A Painful Past

Readers,

Here is a more direct image of Cecily's past for all of you who have been wondering. It is told from a different perspective, so take it with a grain of salt at this point. This chapter is rather heavy. If there is any part of this which you do not understand, be sure to include it in a review. The explanation for many of the events will come with the next chapter. Thank you very much.

S.R.

---

Cecily allowed time to slip away from her, taking with it that night. The Opera House ran smoothly, with only the occasional interruption from La Carlotta. Her temper tantrums were the biggest disturbance to Cecily's work around the opera, work that was steadily increasing in amount and responsibility.

She was currently standing near the curtain, watching as Mme. Giry finished her ballet lesson for the morning. That woman had utter control over the ballet rats. It was quite remarkable. "Straighter, Marie! Point your toe! Collette, pay attention! Come now girls, we must know this!"

The girls that were to have the lead ballet roles in this opera were the very girls Cecily had watched over for years. Meg and Christine danced beautifully, both having matured into graceful ballerinas. It was the fear of every girl in the troupe that she would develop in all the wrong places, forcing her early retirement. It would be a waste of years of training.

She turned, taking in other preparations for the upcoming performance of _Il Barbiere di Siviglia_. Costume mistresses chased after flitting ballerinas, stagehands chased after wayward colleagues, and Piangi chased after an irritated Carlotta. All was as it should be in the opera house.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cecily thought she saw a face staring at her. Her heart gave one great knock against her ribcage as recognition set in. She turned slowly, hoping to high heaven that she was imagining things. The face had disappeared. She shook her head, and walked back toward the office. She had paperwork to do.

Around the corner she met Fabrizio, who was pacing back and forth, his brow wrinkled in indecision. "Whatever is wrong with you, Fabrizio? You cannot be so nervous about your role? After all, you have played leads before!"

"No, is not about the role." Suddenly he stopped his pacing, looking frantically at Cecily. "I am very worried. I wish to ask Linnea…"

"Fabrizio! We have had this conversation! Ask her then!"

He shook his head vehemently. "No, no! I cannot!"

Cecily's eyes narrowed. "Why? What has happened?"

"I stopped to speak to a woman who said she needed help. She asked me about you. I told her that you often were in the manager's office, and she thanked me and kissed me. Linnea saw."

"Oh, Fabrizio!" Cecily's heart fell rapidly into her feet. She swallowed hard, trying to put aside her own worry for a moment. "What did she say?"

"Linnea said nothing, just ran away! I cannot find her, but Meg said she was crying when she saw her."

"And, and the other woman? Where did she go?"

Fabrizio waved his hand disinterestedly toward Lefevre's office. "She ran off. Will you help me find Linnea? I have to explain to her."

"I will help you later. I, I have to go, go find M. Lefevre." Cecily's voice was distant, struggling among the sea of worries that was consuming her. She left Fabrizio standing there distraught. Her heart pulled tight within her. Linnea knew in her heart that Fabrizio loved her, but she was young and capricious. She would come to her senses, but the other woman was cause for worry.

She flung open the door and immediately felt a familiar sensation. A knife was being pointed at her by a hand she knew could bury it in her chest without hesitation. "'Ello, love. I've been lookin' for you." Cecily staggered back against the wall, recognition and surprise almost too much to bear. "Aw now, don't you remember your old friend? It's me Jaclyn."

Memories threatened to overwhelm her with the simple mention of that name. "What do you want?" she spat.

"Such words my dear. Tsk tsk. From the way all them folks talked of you, I thought you were a regular fine lady. I see that you can take the girl outta jail, but you can't do nothing about taking the jail outta the girl, eh?"

Cecily repeated herself, each word dripping poison that seemed to do nothing against the one standing before her. "What do you want?"

"A little help. A job maybe, some money to get started, a place to stay. I wanted to meet some of them pretty little dancing girls you got."

Cecily took a step forward. "You will not touch those girls. You will ruin them as you have ruined me. I committed my sins and paid for them. Keep to the already corrupt, you fiend! I will not let me turn these girls into opium fiends!"

"Cecily, I…" M. Lefevre walked in the door only to have Jaclyn set upon rapidly, the knife pointed at his throat.

"Opium fiends? They don't deserve opium!" The strange look of her eyes and the shakiness of her hand convinced Cecily that that was what she had come for: money to buy more opium.

"Jaclyn, leave this be! I will give you the money!"

"Too late for that! You forgot what you owe me is deeper than francs!"

"What?" M. Lefevre poked his question into the conversation.

"Oh you don't know about your little darling? That she is a little jailbird taken flight?"

"Jaclyn, don't!"

The woman ignored her, taking pleasure in the worry obviously written on Cecily's face. "Your little dear here ain't what she looks. She's a regular demon, she is! A murderer. Just decided one day to knock off her old man! Ain't that right girl?"

"No! Stop it, you wretch! Leave us all be!"

"Not right? Where did I go wrong then? Ah, yes, I forgot the part about you being daddy's little whore!" The older woman spat viciously at Cecily's feet. Cecily froze, her eyes wide with shock. "What, didn't remember? How you confessed all your little escapades and how he turned to the little one, you killed him for it? How I saved you in prison?"

"Saved me! You sacrificed me for your own wellbeing! You threw me to the dogs!"

"Not the dogs love, the guards."

A rage she had known only once before overtook Cecily. Blindly, she threw down her cane and ran at the woman, the force of her body throwing the three of them to the floor. The woman grabbed Cecily's cane and beat her violently across the back. Cecily groaned and as she struggled for the knife, ripping it away by the blade. The length of her hand bloodied and torn, she pointed it at Jaclyn, taking a breath to keep herself from running it through the dastardly woman. "Get out." The woman backed up, taking one last opportunity to hiss at Cecily before slipping out.

Cecily followed her to the stairs. "Have her taken to the Sûreté," she called down to a guard. "She has attacked M. Lefevre."

Suddenly tired, she trudged back into Lefevre's office. She could not meet his gaze. "I will clear my things out immediately, monsieur."

"Clear out your things? Surely not!"

Cecily looked up at him questioningly. "I do not know who or what you were before you came to this place, but here you are a woman of good repute. And as far as I am concerned, you just saved my life." He wiped his hand across the small nick the blade had made in his skin, trailing blood across his cheek. "I suppose I'll have to get that taken care of. But as for you, you must stay. You have become indispensable to this opera, and I won't lose that to the ravings of a madwoman."

"She, she was not mad monsieur." The confession pained her, feeling as though as piece of her soul was being ripped away. "She said true things, though distorted."

M. Lefevre looked down at her sorrowful face and torn hand. "I believe that truth is in the eye of the beholder. You are a good woman. Now go get cleaned up. You have tomorrow off, but I expect you back to work on Thursday." Seeing her about to argue, he held his hand up. "Go."

Cecily ran as quickly as she could from the room, trying vainly to hide her tears. She wrapped her hand and hurried around the corner, her limp becoming more pronounced with each step. Her cane was of little use to stop the throb running through her legs and back. Gritting her teeth, she checked the tears that threatened to cascade down her face.

"Cecily! Where did you go?" Fabrizio caught up to her. He saw her hand and tears and immediately stopped. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

"The past," she spat. Seeing his concern, she tried to calm herself. "Someone who thought I owed them something. Listen to me, Fabrizio. Marry Linnea. Marry her and take her away from this place. Take her to your family, who will love and care for her as she could never be here. Protect her! Damn it, protect her!" Her tears refused to be held back any longer, and she hurried to her room, leaving Fabrizio stunned.

She locked the door, letting the tears stream down her face. The physical pain wasn't excruciating, but the weight of the memories was too much. Collapsing onto her bed, Cecily worked out her pain in sobs and writhing. "I cannot escape it! Not even so far away."


	35. Wounded Hearts

For a long time, the only sounds reaching Cecily's ears were the scratching of her sobs and the intense thud of her heart. Hours passed before she gained control of herself. Her breathing began to even out, and she stared at the back of her eyelids.

She hadn't even realized the sound was there before it was ringing in her ears. It was still faint, but recognizable. Erik's voice drifted up through the tunnels. "Then at last a voice in the gloom seemed to cry 'I hear you!' I hear your fears, your torment and your tears."

Cecily wondered what the song was. Perhaps it was for _Don Juan_; he had been busily pounding that out on his organ for some time. "She saw my loneliness, shared in my emptiness. No one would listen! No one but her heard as the outcast hears."

Cursing silently, Cecily understood that the song was not meant for her ears. It was meant for no one but himself. And it was a gift for Christine. Christine, who was his heart and soul. Christine, a little slip of a girl who didn't even understand how to let go of a dead man, much less love a man like Erik. Christine, who, despite her younger age, had something that Cecily had a raging jealousy of.

The singing faded into humming, but the source was coming ever closer. She made to roll over, to at least straighten herself up a bit, but an intense pain ripped through her back. The blow from the cane must have done more damage than she thought. She opened her eyes and tried once again to move. The wrap on her hand was soaked through with blood, leaving a print on the sheets where it had rested.

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself up slowly. She had grabbed the second bandage and was beginning to wrap it when the humming stopped. Erik was at the door.

---

Erik was rather pleased with himself. He had just completed another song for Don Juan, the managers had not done anything to detrimental to L'Opera, and Christine was excelling. Ah, Christine, the light in his darkness! He was on his way to get Cecily to continue their discussion on the finer aspects of Dostoevsky's Poor Folk when he heard the sound of a pained gasp.

Stepping through the door, his eyes widened when he saw Cecily. She was sitting on her bed, pale as death. Her bed was covered in spots of blood, and her cane had been thrown on the ground far from its regular place. "Cecily…" he breathed, "what….?"

Using her teeth to tie off the bandage on her hand, Cecily didn't even try to bite back the rage she was feeling. "Oh Erik," she said icily. "It's you."

"When did this happen?" He took a step closer, suddenly wary of her frigid aura.

"Earlier," was her only response. She felt herself slipping down the bed and bit down hard as she lifted herself.

It was her physical pain that prompted him to move forward again. "Little cat, you are hurt."

"Master of the obvious, aren't you then? Yes, I am hurt. This," she waved her hand," was a gift from an old _friend's_ knife." Lifting herself off the bed with a speed born of anger, she gasped before continuing. "And this," she turned to show him her back," is from my own cane in her hands."

"Dear God, Cecily! These need care!" The wound on her back had obviously not been tended to. The blood had crusted her dress to her back, and in some places, small tears in the dress revealed a bruised and bleeding line across her lower back. In one step, he crossed the divide and made to help her back to the bed.

"Don't touch me!" She shoved him away with force he didn't know she possessed, sending him stumbling backward across the room. He tripped over her misplaced cane, and as he saw her walking toward him, he felt fear from the first time in his adult life. "I did not ask for you to come here to help me. I don't need you," she spat. "I don't need to hear your songs about Christine; I don't need to feel the pounding of your organ as I walk down; I don't need your company; I don't need your music; I don't need you!"

The final statement sent a shockwave through the room. Cecily was almost certain she felt her heart break. Her eyes widened in sudden fear, and the pain she felt in her stomach was almost unbearable. She backed up to the bed slowly. "Oh God, oh God," she whispered prayerfully.

Erik did not react with such emotion. He had, over his life, learned that when threatened, the safest way was to become the Phantom. At that moment, he felt that mantle descending upon him, and tempered it only enough to not harm her anymore. "Very well," he intoned slowly. "I am sorry that I burdened you with my _loathsome,_" he emphasized the word, "presence for so long. Be assured it will not happen again." He disappeared so swiftly then that Cecily could understand the rumors of his being a ghost.

As he door slid into place behind him, Cecily rolled to her left, barely making it to the bedpan before emptying her stomach. The rancid taste still in her mouth, Cecily knew she had done something unforgivable. Despite the blood, she knew now that the worst blow was one she had dealt. It was a blow that yielded two wounds, wounds she feared would never mend.


	36. Paper Confessional

Hobbling to her desk, Cecily took out a piece of paper, ink, and pen. Grabbing a handkerchief, she wiped her face of tears, not wanting what she put down to be obliterated by further weakness.

Concentrating on not shaking the pen, Cecily placed it hesitantly to the paper. Who would she address it to? She couldn't very well say to the Phantom of the Opera, and would it get to him if she wrote Erik? She would have to risk it.

_To Erik,_ she began, but then crossed out the words. This must make amends.

_Dear Erik,_

_I cannot speak what I am about to say, and now it does not matter, for I do not think you would listen to me. I have made a grave error, one that I hope you can forgive in time. I can offer no excuse worthy of you, so I will offer none. Here I place the only explanation I can think of, though it is not in its entirety. Perhaps someday you will deem it well and good to forgive me, and then I will fill in joyfully. I am sorry_.

Cecily stopped her pen. How to begin? Her mind drifted back in time, a time when the sound of a violin filled her with all the joy a father could bring his daughter. She had loved her father dearly, and she had presumed in her childish innocence that he had reciprocated. It had been a wrong assumption.

Her father had left one day without a word to either she or her younger sister Sophie. Neither of them ever heard from him again. Cecily was six.

Cecily's mother had never inspired the same devotion in her children. A libertine, the woman had looked upon her role as mother as a financial obligation. Cecily and Sophie had never lacked food or clothing, and there was always a fine roof over their heads. Still, the two girls mourned their father for years.

Their mother had done no such thing. Within the month following her husband's disappearance, she had wed another man, a financier named Vincent de Lille, who hadn't done a day's work in years. Being content with the money, Cecily's mother had a platonic relationship with him. She saved her romance for the string of men that paraded through the house.

It had not taken long to begin. Cecily still could not put it into words, but tried for Erik's sake. She had come to abhor Vincent de Lille as she had never hated anyone in her life. His touch, and even the memory of it, turned her stomach sour. But she had taken it at the time. Her young mind had it figured that this was how she protected her sister. Distract the monster until Sophie could escape. Unfortunately, monsters do not work according to the logic of eleven-year-old minds.

The monster, it turned out, could turn its attention on more than one victim. At age twelve, Cecily had gone up to put her sister to bed when she received a blow to her left shoulder that left a scar in the shape of his belt buckle. He had hit her before she could duck because his belt had already been off. That was what hurt. She made her decision that night.

She had locked Sophie in her room that night and made the eight-year-old promise not to let anyone in except Cecily. Then she had gone. As expected, Vincent had come for Cecily, and Cecily was ready. The monster had barely dropped his trousers when he felt the sting of a blade. If one could feel the knife as it sunk into your heart after a throw.

She had left him there to rot, for all she cared. She had gone down into the cellar and scrubbed herself off. Burning her dress, knowing that men had been convicted on less, she had not noticed the small piece that floated away into the corner. It would be a careless mistake that would cost her six years.

She was parted from Sophie when the pressure in her chest indicated pneumonia. Sent off to a Paris hospital, Cecily had coughed herself to the brink of death. A rich woman had been brought into the bed next to her. The woman knew quite well she had not long to live, and had treated Cecily with a kindness she had never known.

The woman had told Cecily stories of her life and let her eat chocolates that she could not bring herself to nibble. The woman had given her two gifts beyond any other, though. The first had been a book of opera stories that the woman read to her from. Cecily had listened attentively as the woman read tales of daring swordfights, brave princes, loving families, and happy endings. She never read the sad endings.

The second had been tales of the Opera Populaire. The woman had once been a ballerina there. She had married a regular at the opera when she outgrew her skills, but the couple had attended faithfully until she grew ill. Now the woman relived the glory days of her youth in scandalous stories of backstage chaos, blossoming young love, raging prima donnas, and the rumor of a ghost that haunted the Opera Populaire. A rumor that became the Phantom of the Opera.

Cecily never got the chance to thank the woman. One night, the Surate had come for Cecily. That little scrap of dress had told its tale. Thrown into a women's prison, Cecily did not see the light of day in freedom for five years, and only then because of a clerical error that set her free.

Prison was a remarkably educating experience. Jaclyn LeRongeur had taken Cecily under her wing, for a price. Jaclyn, in prison for murder herself, saw in Cecily an innocent, at least for prison. Cecily became the latest in Jaclyn's series of "errand girls," who in reality were whores to the guards in exchange for privileges for Jaclyn.

Cecily shuddered as she looked down at the words that had poured themselves onto the page. She was close. Closer than the edge of a knife.

At nineteen, Cecily had been released by a paperwork error that reduced her sentence from 16 years to six. Lost and alone, knowing her family wouldn't care to hear from her, Cecily had gone to the only other place she knew anything of: the Opera Populaire. Somehow securing a position as a chorus girl, Cecily had gone quietly about her life for several months until that wretch of a stagehand had dragged her down into the bowels of the opera house. Her life had not been quiet since. Happier, yes, but never quiet.

Cecily lay the pen down and smiled bitterly to herself. This time, she had destroyed the happiness herself. Life would grow quiet again, and that stony chill that protected her heart would settle in for another lifetime of winter loneliness.

She carefully folded the paper and opened the passage. She had no intention of going down to him. Instead, she laid the paper by the door he would most likely use: the one to Christine's lesson room.


	37. Inherent Pressures of Running the Opera

"Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroooooiiiir!" The scratching heights of La Carlotta's vocal range pushed out the nearly sour notes as she paraded about the stage in a half-made costume. Behind her, stagehands and artists were scrambling to complete the set for Gounod's Faust. A perfect model of business courtesy, Cecily sat in a chair in the front row, observing the preparations. M. Lefevre wanted things just right for this opera, and Cecily was to make sure things did not go astray.

M. Reyer paused the rehearsal to correct Signora Giudocelli's aria. "Not quite so long on the 'miroir,' Signora."

"It is perfect how I sing it! The note showcase my voice!" Carlotta showed every intention of walking off the stage. Her entourage responded to her beckoning, and the diva had gathered her little dog into her arms before Cecily stepped forward into the patch of light near the orchestra pit.

"Signora, is all this truly necessary?" She gestured at the small mob of people that the opera house was forced to employ for the diva. "Truly, your vocal talent goes beyond your need for constant praise. Such a voice should be able to withstand a simple correction. I understand that the music we purchased was a bit confusing, for which I take the blame. Unfortunately, the situation is uncorrectable for now, and the only clear copy is M. Reyer's. I would consider it a great favor to me if you would allow M. Reyer to inform you of the intended composition." The look Cecily fixed the other woman with was perfect. Enough respect to ease Carlotta's anger, but enough force to ensure that everyone knew that Mlle. Pencombe would not back down.

Finally, Carlotta shoved the small ball of yipping fur back into her costumer's hands. "Si, I do this. Next time, do better, or I may not be so generous!" Gesturing wildly for her music to be returned to her, Carlotta tried again. The note was still a bit of a stretch, but the timing was better. Sighing, Cecily returned to her seat. Moments later, M. Lefevre sat in the seat next to her.

"That was genius the way you handled her. I'm afraid I'm losing my touch at this business. What with that and the other _pressures_ inherent to the opera…." He looked at her poignantly. Both of them were well aware of the messages that had been coming through the manager's office for the past several months. Messages sealed with a red skull.

Cecily's stomach tightened. She had not spoken to Erik since that night and felt a bit of guilt over the reappearance of the Phantom's wrath. He had since taken a very active interest in the running of the opera, taking particular care to emphasize the details that he knew went through Cecily's hands.

M. Lefevre lowered his voice until it was barely audible above the din of the rehearsal. "I thought that you should be the first to know that I will be selling the opera house. The reason this show is so critical is the potential buyers in the audience. I can't take much more of this." He smiled tiredly at Cecily, and for the first time she noticed the lines gathering in the middle of his forehead and the gray hairs sprinkled throughout his formerly black hair.

Not sure what to say, she blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Thank you, monsieur."

Standing slowly, he nodded down at her, understanding. "I think I shall see Australia…"

---

Cecily bit back another cough as she leaned heavily on her cane. She had been particularly tired of late, but with Faust having been launched successfully, life could slow down a bit. All she needed was a little rest…


	38. Sick of Heart

Mme. Giry was beating her cane rhythmically against the stage, watching her girls for any signs of confusion. Meg danced strongly, her light little figure barely touching the ground. Christine danced gracefully, but her heart was not in it. Mme. Giry shook her head and locked her gaze on the girl. Long nights of singing had drained her, though Christine denied it.

"Madame!" The voice was Linnea's. The girl was getting old for the opera's ballet, but no one could bear tell her. Besides, she was dong well with Fabrizio. Perhaps it would all work out without interference. "Madame, I must speak with you!"

Picking up her cane, Mme. Giry walked over to the girl, whose face was clearly lined with worry. "What is it, child?" Her voice was hard and quick, the result of many years under a much harsher ballet mistress. Still, her eyes were soft.

"Madame, it's Cecily. She's been in bed all day…" Linnea bit her lip. "The doctor says it could be influenza," she whispered.

Mme. Giry's face paled at the news. Influenza could kill her easily. She turned to her students. "Rehearsal dismissed for now. Go!" Turning to Linnea, she continued, "She is in her room."

The girl nodded, and Mme. Giry took off at a brisk pace for Cecily's room. She met the doctor at the door. "There is nothing more I can do for her at the moment. I'll come back in the morning."

Mme. Giry nodded, then proceeded in. Cecily lay in her chemise, sweat covering her waxy skin. She shivered slightly against the chill of the room, but her eyes were glassed over. A deep cough suddenly issued from her throat, and Mme. Giry nearly flinched at the harshness of it.

Taking a seat several feet from the bed, Mme. Giry watched the girl until the coughing fit passed. She turned to write a note to M. Lefevre, but her eye caught another piece of paper, one with a broken red seal. Unable to contain her curiosity, she picked it up.

_Mlle Pencombe,_

_Faust is going well, it seems, but do not think that all is fine. Consider it a promise that I will not withdraw my demands from the opera house, and that if you should stray, it would be disastrous to you and those you care about. But there is no one you care about is there?_

There was no signature, but Mme. Giry knew who had penned the hateful note. Her jaw set, and she turned to the secret passage. She knew the passages that moved her around the ground floor, and was set determined to find that blasted man. She had only to continue a little way before she heard music coming from a vacant room. Christine's singing lessons must have started early. Turning toward the music, she felt the crumple of paper beneath her feet and stooped to pick it up.

Her hand moved to put the letter in her bodice when she felt the scratch of rope against it. Pushing roughly back against the rope, she spun on him. "You stupid man! What do you think you're doing?"

The rope disappeared, and Mme. Giry felt a hand placed roughly on her elbow, dragging her away from the wall. "What are you doing here, Marie? You should not be here!" His voice was low and threatening.

"Release me this instant, man! Have you truly gone mad? First your harsh words to Cecily and now to me! The only ones who are kind to you!"

"Kind to me?" His voice was venomous now. "Kind? Mlle Pencombe can hardly be considered kind."

"So you are one and the same. Do you not care she could be dying?"

"What?"

"She is fevered! Perhaps even influenza! And still you continue your little tirade!" Mme. Giry broke free and continued up the passage, pausing before she pushed open the door to Cecily's room. As she stepped back into the light, she looked down at the paper in her hands. It was a bit smudged, but still readable. _Dear Erik,_ it began. "And apparently, this was for you." She dropped the paper just inside the passage and closed the door, leaving Erik alone is his darkness.

Walking slowly over to the door, Erik knelt to lift the paper. On the other side of the door, a vicious hacking cough began.

"Angel?" His sensitive ears picked up the small, pleading voice. "Angel, are you still here?"

Rushing back through the passages, he replied, "I cannot remain, I am called away. I will come for you again, child. Believe that."

Back in his lair, Erik sat roughly on the steps. Taking out the letter in shaking hands, he began to read. _Dear Erik…_ "She called me dear…" he breathed. _I cannot speak what I am about to say, and now it does not matter, for I do not think you would listen to me. I have made a grave error, one that I hope you can forgive in time. I can offer no excuse worthy of you, so I will offer none. Here I place the only explanation I can think of, though it is not in its entirety. Perhaps someday you will deem it well and good to forgive me, and then I will fill in joyfully. I am sorry_.

His eyes read quickly through the rest of the document, his stomach tightening its knot with each word. "Cecily…" he breathed. "My poor little cat…What have I done? What have I done?"


	39. News Travels Fast

News of Cecily's illness spread quickly through the Populaire's staff, and everyone hoped the disease wouldn't travel with the same speed. Several days into her fever, she was moved into the infirmary where she could be under constant watch. Erik watched all this from his world behind the walls, wishing for once he could go out and comfort her like any normal friend.

Mentally berating himself for letting so much time slip away, Erik paced the hidden tunnels endlessly for several days. The day after Cecily was moved, Erik could no longer fight the urge to slip into her room, simply to be reminded of happier days. Cecily's fever had not broken, and each day brought a diminished hope for recovery.

Entering the room, he locked the door silently, the candelabra burning on the mantle more than enough light for this creature of darkness. Everything was in its order, as it always was in Cecily's world. Her bed laid carefully made, a sign that she had been absent for some time. Cecily never made her bed. She was of the opinion that she was the only supposed to be in her room, and that she was only going to mess it up several hours later.

Stacks of books lined the shelves and much of the floor. Books on every subject, from science to history to language to music, bore marks of good use, with several sporting torn pieces of paper as book marks where she had found interesting passages. Notebooks on her desk were filled with practiced mathematics and Russian.

It was the notebooks that Erik took a moment to study. She had poured herself into these journals, and Erik thought that perhaps he could sense her through them. He flipped through the pages, completely oblivious to the invasion of privacy he was committing. A series of painfully familiar words stopped his scanning.

Page after page was filled with these words that Cecily should not have known, but somehow did. Poor grammar made it somewhat difficult to understand in points, but it was still blatantly Persian.

Where she had ever gotten the time or resources to so thoroughly learn the language was beyond him. True, she probably couldn't pronounce it, but that was inconsequential. What had possessed her to write so much in a language she had little knowledge of and less use for?

_I sometimes wonder, _she had penned,_ why I work so hard at something no one will ever see. That none of my work is worth it. But then I think of Don Juan, and I know that sometimes even works of genius may never see the light of day. I truly hope Erik has this opera performed. It would prove interesting to say the least. _

_And of course, when I think of Don Juan, thoughts of Erik soon follow. I have not seen him in so long… I do not blame him for not coming back, though. My words were biting and cruel. My poor Erik! I wonder if we will ever mend, if I can ever show him these words, penned for him. I suppose in some way they are penned for him. I could write in French or Russian, but Persian is the only language that Erik ever has spoken of with emotion. Something happened in Persia that he will not speak of, and this is my own way of coming close to it._

_Christine and Erik spend more and more long nights together then ever, and I see the toll it is taking on the both of them. Mme. Giry will interfere soon if Erik doesn't let Christine sleep. Perhaps he would leave her more often if he spoke to me, but perhaps I will never know. I miss him terribly._

Putting down the notebook, Erik noticed his hands were shaking again. She had missed him, had learned something for him, cared about him. He was blown away by these new revelations. Had he turned one more page, however, he would have found these words.

_I fear I love him. I am only too happy to drown in this sea, but the sea will never welcome me. I am not worthy of him, but I love him. Oh, Erik._

If he would have read that, it may have changed everything.


	40. Season of Darkness

Readers,

This chapter was supposed to be posted last week, but I couldn't upload it for some reason. So here it is. This will also be the last chapter for several weeks, as I will be without Internet access. I will keep scribbling though, and should havea chapter ready to post when I get back. Thanks so much for your support of this story. Your reviews are amazing. All Erik ever does is nod distractedly, although I suppose in Erik terms, that's high praise. Maybe. I'll just keep thinking that it is. Back to the point, here is another chapter for your enjoyment.

S.R.

---

The world was blurry, and the glaring white of the entire room did not improve the situation. Cecily struggled with a deep breath and swallowed thickly against a cough. Her head felt like it had exploded, and the sheen of sweat on her skin made her shove weakly at the blanket covering her. Her lips were dry, and her throat burned from the hacking and lack of water.

She propped herself up against the headboard, the effort taking all but the very last of her strength. Sagging back against the pillows, she fought for a recollection of her situation. The infernal white told her she was in the infirmary, but how long had she been there? Had she gotten anyone else sick?

"You shouldn't worry about others so much when your own state is so questionable." Cecily hadn't realized she's spoken aloud.

"What?"

"You're very lucky to be alive, you know. You must have an incredible constitution to have pulled through that." A man walked over to her and sat down next to the bed. His sleeves were rolled up and the spots of blood on his shirt betrayed his profession. Smears of the crimson stain ran along his forearms as well, and Cecily inwardly flinched at the disgusting sight. Her own blood was one thing, but the blood of another, and not knowing what had caused it, made her a bit queasy. Her already light head didn't help, and her eyes rolled back.

A moment later, she felt those hands on her face, tapping gently to wake her up. "How long…?"

"Were you out? Just a moment. Have you been here? Around a week. You've caused quite the uproar, you know."

"I," she started, but couldn't suppress a series of coughs. "I did?"

He nodded. "Haven't had quite so many visitors of the upper ranks in here since I can remember. Of course, most of them never got any farther than the outer door. No one really wants to see a woman with influenza; it's too catching. But a few stubborn souls fought their way in. Mme. Giry nearly pushed right through me to get in here. A few others came too. That Italian singer and his girl were in a few times, and even M. Lefevre poked his head in. A little dancer girl came in, too. Pretty little one, said she's been told by her angel to come pray for you." He shook his head. "Strange." He stood up. Well, I've got to clean up a bit. I'll check on you later this evening."

"Monsieur, how long do I have to stay?"

He considered for a moment. "That will depend on how strong you are and how well that little girl's prayers were heard."

---

Cecily was staring at the white walls, annoyed by their presence and her inability to escape it. She had tried to stand, but her knees had given out, sending her promptly back into the bed. She had never been so bored in her life. She couldn't sleep. She had slept for an impossibly long time, and now wished only for some way to pass the time other than finding designs in the cracks that lined the walls and ceiling.

She heard the lock turn, and looked up expectantly, hoping to see someone she could talk to. When no one entered the room, she called out, "Hello?"

A shuffle of fabric sounded in the corner, and Cecily was almost sure she caught a glimpse of black. "The only advantage of all this damned white," she thought. "You can see everything."

"Are you going to come out, or are you going to hide in the corner all day?" She was getting rather perturbed with this little game, and half thought she had day-dreamed the whole thing.

"I thought perhaps you could use a better way to pass the time." The voice startled Cecily, and her eyes widened in recognition. Erik walked slowly out, each step measured and slow, carrying a copy of A Tale of Two Cities before him like a shield. And from the look that she sent his way, he would have needed one if she could stand.

"I'm not sure what you mean, monsieur." She hissed the last word. "Your presence does not automatically enhance my world." She bit back a bitter, "In fact, it does quite the opposite."

"Cecily, don't do this." His voice was quiet and held a hint of sadness.

"I would have said the same to you, monsieur, during your long torment of the opera house."

"I was upset…"

"And now I am." She stared him down, but a deep cough forced her to look away. When she looked back at him, she looked considerably older and more worn down. "Why?"

"I thought…I just…I was unused to…"

"Unused to having someone turn on you like you do on them?" She words were hushed, but lacked the ardor of an accusation.

Erik's shoulders sagged. Her words pierced him cleaner than any knife. "What can I do?"

At that moment, he looked so much like any other man, so small against a grand world, that Cecily reached her hand out to him. She didn't have it in her heart to reject him so. He offered her the novel, but she reached out and took hold of his wrist. She pulled him down into the chair. "Do you have an escape from in here?" He nodded slowly, not understanding. "And you locked the door?" Again, he nodded. "Than stay and read to me."

His features softened into a look of bewilderment. "You aren't angry?"

She sighed, and a half cough escaped her. She thought out her words carefully, trying to explain without giving away too much. "I can't stay angry at you forever, Erik. You are my dearest friend. I love you for that."

He was flabbergasted. Had she just uttered the words 'love' and 'you' in the same statement? His entire world was spinning, and he wasn't sure how to stop it. He wasn't sure if he wanted to.

"You even told Christine to pray for me, didn't you?"

His world abruptly stopped spinning. He had heard the word 'love' before, from the perfect lips of his angel. She had asked him what was the matter several days before, and he had confessed, perhaps in error, that his thoughts at least in part with Cecily. The innocent girl had asked if she could do anything, and all Erik could give her in his guise as her angel was to pray. And she had done it. She had done as he asked.

Cecily noticed his eyes were lighted when he raised her frail hand to his think lips. She allowed herself to think it was for her, and she was half right.

Erik opened the book and began, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness…"


	41. Assumptions

Erik visited nearly everyday for a week before he thought to bring up her notebooks. He hesitated to speak of them, thinking she would be angry at him for intruding upon her writings. Finally, his curiosity overwhelmed him. One day when he was sitting with her, he worked up the courage to mention the writing. "Cecily, when you were first ill, I entered your room and couldn't help noticing your notebooks."

She quirked an eyebrow. She knew all too well where this was leading. "And?"

"And I was wondering where you acquired such a strange language."

"Persian? Out of all the people in this opera house, I wouldn't think that you would call Persian strange. I learned it from books of course."

"Why learn such a language? No one here speaks it, and those who do, well, you wouldn't want to speak to them."

"You speak it," she said softly. "It is the only place in your life you ever spoke of with emotion. I thought maybe if I learned it, even as badly as I have, I could understand that one little piece."

His voice was steeled by unwanted memories when he replied, "You don't want to understand."

She looked up at him, then sat up slowly so she was at eye level. "Don't tell me what I don't want to understand."

Anger boiled just under his skin. She was not the cause of it, but she would receive the brunt of the storm. "Very well. You want so much to understand, I will tell you. I was a murderer and assassin. I built torture devices for the entertainment of a wretched woman, and willingly killed innocent victims to please the court. I spied on those suspected of treason, and put to death a good number of those I thought unfit to live. I was well acquainted with poison, knife, and hangman's rope. I was death to them, and I was rewarded for it!" His voice was dangerous a weapon in and of itself, and his eyes shot fire at her and he fought to control the volume of his voice.

She stared at him blankly. He assumed that she had been overwhelmed by his list of crimes, so it surprised him when she spoke. "So I was mostly correct."

"What?"

"Your notebooks are filled with cryptic messages of the time. Books upon books about poison, sketches of painful looking devices, and a detailed drawing of a very interesting looking lasso put me on the trail. You just filled in the details."

He was deflated, and sat back down. His anger was swept away with the calmness of her words. She watched him sit heavily in his chair, and managed a weak laugh.

"You are tired, little cat. Sleep." She didn't argue when he walked to the door and put his hand to the lock. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight." He moved to slip into a passageway, but was stopped by her voice. "Oh and Erik…"

"Yes?"

"Never read my notebooks again."


	42. How Life Should Be

Readers,

As you can probably tell, my claim that chapter 40 was the last chapter for a while was a tiny fib. A recent fit of writing has overcome me, and I thought to post now instead of later. I do hope you enjoy it.

S.R.

---

Six months passed quickly as Cecily's health continued to improve. Her lungs had expelled the incessant cough, and soon enough she was back to her regular duties. Chalumeau's Hannibal was into production, and M. Lefevre had finally found buyers for l'Opera Populaire. Two gentlemen by the names of Firmin and Andre, who apparently had made their money buying scrap metal, would be taking over management of the opera. They had also found a new family to support the opera house. A very rich family.

Cecily stood in the wings, watching as the final touches were put on the production, which was to open in a week. As always, hundreds of things still needed done, the least of which not being Carlotta's unfinished costume. The woman strutted across the stage, bellowing out notes that ranged in pitch, but all had the same effect on the ears.

Finally weary of the spectacle, Cecily made her way to the stables. The grooms were prepping the white horses to be used tonight, but the feeling of hurriedness did not carry out this far. She leaned against a support beam and watched the goings on. A nudge on her shoulder made her turn. Cesar, the prized black horse of the opera house, nudged her again, and Cecily smiled. Reaching into a nearby bag, she pulled out a sugar cube and fed it to the gentle giant. He took it gratefully, and allowed her to touch his nose in return for the gift.

"You seem to have a knack with horses."

The voice was strange to her, and she turned, expecting a groom. Instead, she saw a young man in his early twenties, well dressed, and obviously very rich from the materials he wore. "Thank you. Cesar is simply fond of anyone with access to sugar cubes."

The young man laughed. "If only all creatures were so easy to please. But forgive me, I am the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. May I have the privilege of your name?"

"You may. My name is Cecily Pencombe. M. Lefevre told me you might be coming to tour the opera house soon."

"Mlle Pencombe? Yes, my parents told me to seek you out. And it appears that I haven't had to. So will you give me a tour."

The young nobleman had a charm about him, and Cecily smiled. "Of course, monsieur. Follow me." She led him to a back corner, and he gave her a questioning look. "The new managers have expressed their wish for you to be introduced by them only, so we shall enter the opera house by a more secret route." She pushed a panel in the wall and it slid open, admitting the two of them.

This way was lighted by torches Cecily had lit on her way into the stables, and she let him view the hidden structure with awe. "I never knew this existed."

"There are many things about the opera house that are unknown to many. It is a mysterious place."

"Mysterious? And what mysteries does such a public place hold other than these passages?"

"Many things. The Opera Ghost for instance." It was a funny tale to her, all the shrieks and giggles added to the myth by over-excited ballerinas.

"An Opera Ghost? Enlighten me." She told him of a being that haunted the building, causing general mischief, and sometimes even putting his invisible hand to the task of helping run the opera house. He laughed. "Surely you do not honestly believe in ghosts!"

"No, monsieur, not ghosts." Her smile had something cryptic in it, but he did not pursue it. They entered the opera house, and no sooner had they passed the manager's office than they were set upon by three men: Messieurs Lefevre, Andre, and Firmin.

"Ah! I'm glad you're here, Vicompte! You may examine this great building with us!"

He turned to Cecily who gave him a look that read clearly: You cannot tell the secrets you know.

"It would be an honor, gentlemen. Thank you, Mlle Pencombe, for conducting me here. I hope to see you again."

He nodded and followed the other men, who gave her not a nod. Sighing, she made her way to Box 5 to watch the rehearsals. Erik was right to claim this box. It was the best in the house, with a view of both the crowd and the stage, but recessed enough to maintain privacy. Carlotta had mercifully retired from the stage for today, and the ballerinas were struggling to perform each step while chained together. "Entirely superfluous, those chains," she muttered.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Warm breath played against her ear, and she suppressed the urge to shudder. It would not do to show that to Erik. Unbidden, the memory of one of the nights she had first spent in his lair came to mind. It was the last time she had felt his breath upon her, other than the Don Juan incident, as she had come to call it. She chuckled softly.

"And what is so funny?" He did not sound amused.

"Oh, dear. Do you remember when you and I first met? I had insisted that you and I could share that enormous bed, quite unaware that you never slept in it in the first place. I played quite the little minx and taunted you about what you needed to remove. You called my bluff, but I one-upped you and told you to remove your socks!" She chuckled again.

"I do not see how this is amusing." His face was frowning, but Cecily saw a smile in his eyes.

"I met the new patron today. And the two new managers." It was an offhand comment, but he took interest.

"Did you? And what are they like?"

"Well, the two managers are _nouveau riche_, scrambling to make sure the proper etiquettes are observed. The patron is young and charming. I'm sure all the chorus girls will be falling over themselves to get a kind word from him. He is quite the fop."

Erik smiled at this, and both of them turned their attention to the stage, where Mme. Giry was berating one string of dancers on how to be more in synch with one another. Cecily felt Erik sit in the chair next to her and let herself relax. A feeling rushed over her then, one she wished would never go away. This was how life was supposed to be.


	43. A Nightmare

That night Cecily slept little. Her dreams had been taken over by an unrelenting nightmare, and she refused to sleep again that night.

It was a nightmare she had had before. It began with a house obviously in mourning. All the mirrors were covered and black lined the stairwell. The blood in the upstairs room had stained the floor, and two girls huddled in a room. Despite the air of mourning, men that neither girl had ever seen before still strutted about the house as if they owned it, chasing after the newly widowed mother.

Always, Cecily felt herself one of the girls. The other was ripped away from her, and the younger girl's cries floated on the night. She screamed out her sister's name, "Sophie!" and woke. The same nightmare had come sporadically for years. This night, it refused to let go.

Unable to sleep, she went to her office and began to fill out the seemingly endless stack of paperwork it took to transfer ownership of the opera house.

---

It was still early when Cecily's hunger started to gnaw at her stomach. Setting down her pen, she decided to go the café for breakfast. She was unwilling to risk the cook's bread, as the cook had been ill. The street was just waking as she stepped out into the sunrise. It was beautiful, and Cecily paused to take it all in.

"It's wonderful, isn't it?" It was the voice of the Vicompte.

"Yes, it is, monsieur."

"You may call me by my name, Raoul."

"Then you may use my name. Cecily."

"Well, then, Cecily, what are you doing up so early? I expected the opera house to still be sleeping for several hours."

"As Ben Franklin said, 'Early to bed, early to rise, make a woman healthy, wealthy, and wise.' Or something along those lines. I am out to get breakfast. Would you care to join me?"

"It would be a delight, I'm sure. Where are we headed?"

Cecily pointed to a little café around the corner. "It is pleasant and simple. And they know me there."

"Then off we go!"

She smiled at his boyishness, took his proffered arm and descended the staircase.

---

"You truly didn't have to buy my breakfast, Raoul, but it was very kind of you."

"You have told me much about this place. I consider it an honor."

She patted his hand lightly as she removed her arm from his. "Well, here we are. Rehearsal should be in session." The stage was strangely quiet. "I wonder…"

M. Andre interrupted her. "Monsieur Vicompte! I am very glad to see you! Come with me!" The man seemed high-strung, as always, and Raoul allowed himself to be led away.

Cecily laughed at the two gentlemen and turned toward the wings. Meg and Christine were eyeing Raoul and whispering, the first two of many, Cecily was sure, to fall under the boy's charm. She had stood there no longer than five minutes when Raoul came back to her. "Thank you for the lovely breakfast, Cecily. We shall have to dine together another time." He raised her hand lightly to his lips and smiled. "Until we meet again."

"Au revoir, Raoul."

Above her, a pair of eyes traced both Cecily's exit and the leave of the foppish new patron. His mouth set in a grim line, he stalked away, waiting for an opportunity to show his displeasure.

---

She had only stepped a few feet outside the auditorium when she heard the crash. She raced back in, only to be met by a raging Carlotta. "Dese tings do 'appen! Da nerve! Ugh!"

The chaos on stage seemed to be caused by a fallen backdrop. Whispers of "Phantom!" raced through the air, and Cecily raised her eyes to the catwalks in a vain attempt to find the telltale black cloak.

"He reminds you also that his salary is due. M. Lefevre paid him 20,000 francs a month, but perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte de Chagny as your patron." Mme. Giry was prodding the two new managers, as much onto the scent of new blood as the rest of the opera.

Firmin shook his head disbelievingly. "Madame, I had hoped to have made that announcement public tonight when the Vicomte was to join us for the gala but obviously we shall now have to cancel, as it appears that we have lost our star. A full house, Andre, we shall have to refund a full house!"

Cecily did the basic math quickly, and it caused even her to flinch.

"Christine Daaé could sing it, sir."

"Christine?" she interjected.

Mme. Giry gave her a level look. "She has been well taught."

Andre nodded briskly, and Mme. Giry ushered Christine to the front. M. Reyer nodded to her, and the music started. As she knew it would, music fit for the gods floated from her lips. No, not fit for the gods. Fit for an angel of music.

Slowly she backed out of the auditorium. Back in her room, she tried to take it casually, this victory of Christine's. Try as she might, all she could think of was Erik's smiling face.


	44. The Gala Night

I am the most evil author. I am truly, truly sorry for the long gap between the last post and this. My only possible excuse is that I have been home only one day out of the entire month of July (literally). Anyway, here is the next chapter. I hope you like it.

S.R.

---

Cecily lived her life in a resigned silence, carrying out her duties without emotion. Christine truly had Erik's heart. Two musical geniuses deserved each other. Only at night, when she was sure she was truly alone, did she allow a tear to mar her cheek.

Cecily was in the ballet dressing room as curtain time approached. Girls in slave costumes moved chaotically through the room, occasionally stopping for Cecily to smooth material and sooth nerves. Meg hovered near the door, a strange look of rapture on her face.

"What is it, Meg?"

The girl broke out of her reverie to see Cecily standing next to her. "Oh, nothing. I was just thinking. About Christine," she added.

"What about her?" Cecily's stomach was suddenly sour, and she swallowed thickly to settle it.

"Will she do well, do you think?"

"I think Christine will do very well." She cast her gaze to the floor and fought for the right words. "But you will shine as well."

"Thank you. Oh dear! It must be only an hour before curtains and here I am keeping you from getting ready!"

"Think nothing of it. I don't think I'll be going tonight."

"Why ever not?" Meg was absolutely incredulous.

"I'm not feeling very well…"

"Oh, well then, you certainly should rest!" Meg's mind had cast back to Cecily's illness.

"Yes," Cecily agreed wearily. "Bonsoir, my dear."

Slipping out into the more general chaos of the backstage, she was surprised to hear her name being called. "Mlle Pencombe! There you are! I have been looking everywhere for you!"

"M. Andre, what is the matter? Has something happened?"

Ignoring her question, Andre continued his rant. "Are you not ready for the performance?"

"I'm not sure I will attend tonight, monsieur."

The man grew even more frantic. "But you must! There is a Russian nobleman, a very rich nobleman, and you must speak to him!"

"You want me to entertain him?" she asked dryly.

"Them. He and his man. Simply make them feel welcome. Now go and get ready, then meet me at the top of the grand staircase."

Before Cecily could say anything, the man had hurried off to another corner of the opera house. "Poor man. He has more nerves before opening night than a novice ballerina. So much for my bit of rest tonight."

She quickly made her way to her room and moved behind the dressing curtain. She was almost changed within moments, but she could not seem to hook the last few buttons on the back of her dress. "Stupid bloody gowns! Fanciful and useless fashions with all these blasted clasps! It's a grand pile of rubbish it is. I don't understand why women wear these things!" she fumed.

"Because going naked would be too chilly and cause too much of a stir, even for those ladies who pride themselves on trendsetting. Did you need help then, mademoiselle?"

The voice froze her, and she clutched a nearby robe around herself. "Erik! What are you doing in here? Now!" She blushed furiously at the thought of him present while she changed.

"I only just arrived," he chuckled. "Just in time to hear that little tirade of yours."

"I, well, these buttons just…" she stammered.

"I repeat, did you need help with them?"

"Well, yes, but I'm not entirely sure that you should…"

"If it offends mademoiselle's honor, I won't even look."

She wasn't sure which frightened her more, the thought of him seeing her back or the idea of him groping blindly to finish the task. There was no telling where sightless hands might roam. "If you would be so kind, just finish the buttons, please."

"As you wish, little cat."

Cecily hung the robe back on its hook and moved hesitantly out from behind the curtain. He stood in the corner of the room, looking at a small painting hung there. It had been given to her for her last birthday by Fabrizio and Linnea. The two were now engaged to be married. Time moved so quickly.

She walked over to him and touched him on the shoulder. He turned his head. She was terrifyingly beautiful. He didn't know where she had gotten the dress, but she could put any of the finely dressed peacocks in the entry to shame. Her long brown hair was pinned up, leaving a single curl hanging down the side of her face. Hazel eyes shone out from under her eyelashes, almost hidden by her downcast gaze. Unable to control it, his gloved hand ran over her cheek. "You are stunning."

"Thank you," she whispered.

Spinning her around, Erik lithely closed the final half-dozen buttons or so, and had to force his hands to part from her. What was this? He could not do this! Not now that he was so close to having Christine! He had planned for weeks for this night, and he would not allow his weakness to ruin his well-planned evening. "Now if I am not mistaken, you have an appointment at the grand staircase. You had best be off."

She smiled at him weakly, and he wondered what she was thinking. "Thank you, Erik. And good luck to Christine."

She hurried out of the door, and he slipped through the passage, hoping to catch a glimpse of his angel before her debut. She would shine tonight. He knew it.

---

"M. Andre, you called for me?" She joined a small group of men at the top of the staircase, a well-practiced smile firmly in place.

"Mlle Pencombe! I'm glad you could join us. This is Lord Karkevnin."

"Mademoiselle, it is a pleasure to meet you," the nobleman intoned in heavily-accented French.

"No, sir, it is my honor and pleasure," Cecily replied, her Russian only hinting that it was not her first tongue. Erik had done well in coaching her accent.

The man smiled broadly. "Ah, what a sweet surprise it is to find a little Russian rose all the way in Paris! I am impressed, mademoiselle. But where did you learn your French? It is flawless!"

Cecily smiled demurely, enjoying the looks of admiration she was receiving from the four men. "My lord, it was not French I learned. I was raised in France."

"Truly? Then where did you acquire such fluent Russian so far from the motherland?"

"A well-traveled friend taught me."

"I should like to meet this friend of yours."

"Alas, sir, he is here no longer," she said. It would not do well to have them attempt to seek out Erik. "Travelers never rest for long it seems."

"No, they do not. But my manners! This," he indicated a younger man with blonde hair and sharp brown eyes, "is Nicholai Tchikevsky. He has been my loyal companion and business manager for so long he has become a friend."

The younger man gave Cecily a courtly bow. "You are a truly remarkable lady, Mlle Pencombe. I am quite pleased to have the opportunity to meet you."

The managers by now were rather frustrated with not being able to understand a word, and Cecily could see it. "Messieurs, may I have the honor of showing these gentlemen to their seats?"

"Of course, of course. That is, if it is all right with you, Lord Karkevnin."

"I would have asked you for the same privilege!" he laughed. "Come, my dear, tell us of this place. It will be good to hear some well-spoken Russian amidst this French bustle."

Cecily showed the two gentlemen to their seats in Box 3. Light court banter, as taught to her by Erik, danced between their mouths. Cecily felt the younger man's eyes on her as they climbed the stairs, and for once, such attention did not unnerve her. He held himself well, and though he said little, what he did say was intelligent and well-thought. She met so few in the opera house ho were educated enough to discuss and, god forbid, debate. She had the brief thought that it would be interesting to speak to Nicholai Tchikevsky at some time.

"Well here you are gentlemen, Box 3. It has some of the best seats in the house. If you should desire anything at any time, simply call one of the box attendants. They will be happy to help." She turned to leave, but M. Tchikevsky lightly caught her elbow.

"We would be most honored if you would join us for the performance, mademoiselle."

Shocked, Cecily raced for words. "My lord, Mr. Tchikevsky, that is a very kind offer, but I'm afraid…"

"You simply must stay!" bellowed Lord Karkevnin, never one to remain quiet.

Knowing she had little option, Cecily accepted. She would have quite the view of the show, and perhaps she could even slip off to visit the next box over. Surely Erik would not miss this show.

She settled herself into one of the chairs while the two men discussed business in the corner of the box. When the lights dimmed, Lord Karkevnin sat on one side, Mr. Tchikevsky on her other, a conspicuous gap left between the two. She thought it was rather sweet of him, sitting a space away to prevent her discomfort.

She heard the first cello player draw his bow slowly across the strings, and Hannibal was underway. Piangi sang well enough, and his chorus of soldiers didn't trip over one another. A good enough start. She could feel the older gentleman beside her begin to be restless, but then Christine stepped on stage. Decked out in a diva's garb, Christine had drawn the eye of every man in the house. The song she sang was happy, but every note made Cecily's heart hurt even more.

By the time the last song in the first act came around, Cecily couldn't take it any longer. A song about lost love, freed from attachment by one who still loves him, was like a knife to her heart. Christine's crystal notes rose to the ceiling, awing all those who heard her.

"Think of all the things we've shared and seen.

Don't think about the things that might have been . . .  
Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned.  
Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind.  
Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do -  
there will never be a day, when I won't think of you . ."

When the audience stood to applaud, Cecily excused herself, ignoring the concerned looks of the two gentlemen in her box. She practically ran down the steps to the entry. She stepped behind a pillar to catch her breath when she heard another voice.

"Can it be? Can it truly be Christine? What a change! She's really not a bit the gawkish girl that she was! She may not remember me, but I remember her. She must remember me! I will speak to her."

Raoul hurried down the stairs, right past where Cecily was busy trying to block out all thoughts of the young new diva. During intermission, she changed back into her normal work gown and went to sit backstage. Meg danced beautifully, moving as gracefully as bird in flight. Her expression while bound in chains was far too recognizable to Cecily. It was pain. Not acted pain; real, authentic, heart-wrenching pain.


	45. Nicholai

The gala was a huge success. All of Paris was enthralled by the new prima donna, Christine Daae. The wing where the girl's dressing room was had to be protected by several stagehands and a rather vicious Mme Giry to prevent any intrusion. Cecily was listening to Fabrizio tell of one of his childhood exploits, an obvious attempt to make her smile. It was working. He had an entire circle of hardened chorus members laughing, an impressive feat. It would be a shame when he left for Italy.

Cecily was brought from her laughter by the call of her name. She turned and saw Nicholai Tchikevsky leaning against the wall, watching the group of them. "Monsieur! What are you doing here?" She had not meant to sound so upset, but she was certainly surprised to see him backstage.

"Ah, my lord was rather taken with one of the dancer girls and came to see if he could obtain her name and a dinner appointment."

Cecily raised her eyebrow. "I see. So you are left to fend for yourself while he is off on his quest?"

"I suppose, but I was rather hoping to speak with you."

"Me? Whatever for?"

"Simply to find out more about you. You are an interesting woman, Mlle Pencombe, and I could only hope to find out some of the reasons for your personality."

"Well, I am honored. Perhaps you would like a bite to eat, as well? I know that many of the nobility are off to a late meal. I cannot offer you a spread like theirs, but there is soup in the kitchen."

"That sounds wonderful."

Cecily turned back to Fabrizio and the others. "I'm off. I will see you all later. And Fabrizio, tell Linnea to find me in the morning. I want to speak to her."

He nodded his head in agreement, gave a quick appraising look to the blonde man standing behind Cecily, and turned back to the others. The man looked decent enough, and Cecily knew how to take care of herself.

Cecily stood and led the Russian man through the chaos of the backstage after an opera. "Now, Mr. Tchikevsky…"

"Call me Nicholai."

Cecily blushed lightly. What was it about this man that was reducing her to the levels of a flirtatious ballerina? "Cecily. Call me Cecily then."

---

It must have been nearly 4 o'clock in the morning when a mildly drunken Lord Karkevnin found Cecily and Nicholai seated in the kitchen. His quest had evidently been successful, and he grabbed Nicholai by the arm, slapping him soundly on the back. "So there you are, you rascal! I've been looking all over for you! Never knew there were so many rooms in this damned place! Well, hello, there miss…"

"Pencombe," Nicholai intruded. "Cecily joined us for the first half of the opera, but was called away on other business. My lord, we really should be getting you back to the flat. You will need your sleep before tomorrow, well, this morning." Standing, he bowed lightly to Cecily. "Thank you. The evening was most enjoyable." Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it, a roguish smile playing at his face. "I hope I can see you again?"

She paused for a moment, considering. "Yes, I think I would like that, Nicholai."

She sat there for a moment sipping her coffee and watching the retreating forms of the two Russians. If she wasn't mistaken, Nicholai winked at her before he turned the corner. Feeling the heat of a blush spread on her cheeks, Cecily hastened to her room, locked the door, and settled in for a brief sleep.


	46. Notes

Cecily moved through the nearly empty opera house the next morning. It was 9 o'clock, but very few were awake. As was her custom when she was the first one up, she went out for breakfast. Gathering the mail on her way back in, she shuffled through it. Several bills, a few applications for box seats, one or two letters of adoration for Christine, a newspaper, and two letters that could only be from Erik. "Oh dear. What is it that you want now?" Surprisingly, neither was addressed to her. She could only assume they were harassment letters. She rolled her eyes and set the mail down on M. Firmin's desk, opening the newspaper. The headline made her gasp audibly.

MYSTERY AT L'OPERA POPULAIRE!

Gala Night Soprano Disappears After Tour de Force

Sureté Baffled, Suspect Foul Play

Not bothering to read the rest of the article, Cecily threw the paper down on the desk and stormed from the office. Hurrying through the empty corridors, Cecily fumed. If someone had hurt Christine, they would have the entire staff of the opera to deal with. The public was fickle; they could turn from adoration to disdain in an hour. Inside the opera, though, each member was protected by the whole. Not to mention if Erik found out she was missing.

Erik! She would find him. He would most certainly find Christine! She thought it was a decent plan as she pushed open the door to Christine's dressing room. Nothing looked amiss, except where the gendarmes had obviously been. No one could have broken in so easily. Eyeing the mirror, Cecily realized he wouldn't have had to break in. He had a door in and out.

Her rage suddenly renewed, she rushed down the first set of stairs and turned the knob on the door. It was locked! That man was intentionally keeping everyone else out! If he had done anything to Christine…

She took a deep breath. Of course Erik wouldn't do anything to Christine. He practically worshipped the ground she walked on. She exited, trying a few more ways in, knowing that Erik was too thorough to leave them unlocked. She most certainly had some choice words for that man, but for now she would have to settle herself with business.

She heard M. Firmin in his office before she reached the door. As she was descending the grand staircase, Raoul bounded through the door. "Do you know where she is? I mean, I knew something was wrong last night, but now… Is she alright?"

"Raoul, what? Who? Slow down, and I may be able to tell you something."

"Miss Daae! She was gone last night, so I left I to the gendarmes, but now I've gotten this!" He thrust a note into her hand.

Cecily opened it and read aloud, "Do not fear for Miss Daae. The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again."

"Do you know what it means? Who would send such a thing?"

Cecily was about to answer when the frantic voice of M. Andre floated through the hall. Raoul took back his note and ran toward the office. "Oh dear, Erik," she muttered. "Look at all the trouble you're causing." Biting back a bitter, "for her," Cecily plodded on toward the office.

Near the front door, a round woman carrying a yipping ball of fur ran into her. "Watch where yer goin'!" She yelled in a Briton accent. Cecily would have responded, but her arm was suddenly seized by a furious Spanish woman.

"What is this?" Her thick accent and high pitched squeal made it very difficult to decipher her words. "Did you send this?"

Another piece of paper was thrust into Cecily's hand, and again she read aloud, "Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered. Christine Daae will be singing on your behalf. Be prepared for a great misfortune, should you attempt to take her place."

"Did you?" the diva shrieked.

"Signora, do you honestly think that I penned this?" She looked the prima donna squarely in the eye, and the woman huffed.

"No, no, you did not do it. Who did?"

From the office, the sound of three men was coming closer. "I want an answer! I take it that you sent me this note?"

Carlotta motioned to her entourage to follow up the grand staircase. Cecily moved toward the stairs, ready to go back to bed. No work was going to get done with all this going on.

"Far too many notes for my taste!" exclaimed M. Firmin.

"Indeed," agreed M. Andre. "And most of them are about Christine. All we've heard since we came is Miss Daae's name!"

If you hadn't heard it, you would have lost quite a bit of money last night, thought Cecily.

Cecily suddenly felt Mme Giry beside her. "Miss Daae has returned."

Every eye in the hall focused on the ballet instructor. "I trust, then, madam, that her midnight oil is well and truly burned," whispered Cecily dryly.

Mme Giry gave her a look of warning, and turned back to the others. "She is resting now."

"Can I see her?" Raoul beseeched.

"She will see no one," she said, then turned to Cecily. "No one," she reiterated.

Pushing her way to the front, Carlotta shrilled, "Will she sing?"

Mme Giry reached into her bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. "I have a note!"

Everyone suddenly burst out, "Let me see it!"

"Madam, please," whispered Cecily.

Mme Giry relinquished the note to Cecily, who read it apprehensively. ""Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance.

Christine Daae has returned to you, and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of "Il Muto", you will therefore cast Carlotta as the Pageboy, and put Miss Daae in the role of Countess. The role which Miss Daae plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the Pageboy is silent - which makes my casting, in a word ideal.  
I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.

I remain, Gentlemen, Your obedient servant, O.G." She refolded the letter, the sound of the rustling paper the only sound in the room.

Suddenly, Carlotta shot a look at Raoul. "I know who sent this! It was the Vicomte! Her lover!"

Rolling his eyes, Raoul shot Cecily a look that read, That woman is on my last nerve. "Indeed? Can you believe this?"

Carlotta ranted for several minutes before the managers apparently made a decision. "We don't take orders! Miss Daae will be playing the pageboy, the silent role! Carlotta will be playing the lead!"

Not wanting to hear anymore, Cecily shoved the note into M. Firmin's hands and walked away. She had somewhere else she needed to be."One week before Il Muto. This will be a very long week."


	47. Unanswered Questions

Erik was busy at his organ. He could still feel Christine's warm hands on his skin, and it had him unnerved. The horror on her face when she had seen him! He struck a sour chord and flinched. The sound of a door opening made him regret unlocking them. He did not want to deal with Cecily. "Go away!"

"Good morning to you too. And from what I understand you had a long night."

He whirled around to face her, his eyes doing what they could to burn into her. "You know nothing of what you speak!"

"Hmm." Cecily didn't reply, just moved toward the bedroom. The bed held only one imprint, thank God.

"You didn't believe me? How dare you!" he bellowed.

Again, she didn't answer, and her silence was beginning to push him past his limits. She was walking back over to him when she paused, eyes wide in shock. "I've never seen this one before."

Inside one of his many broken mirrors he had built a statue of Christine. It was a perfect likeness, a work of art, to be sure. It was also, regrettably, dressed in a wedding gown and veil. "You were not meant to."

She looked up at him. He had moved closer, putting the cover back over the mirror. "So I gathered. It was well done though."

She continued her silent tour of the lair, stepping up into the kitchen. Erik heard the shuffle of dishes and the sound of running water. She didn't come out for a few minutes, and finally Erik's curiosity got the better of him.

She was standing by the teapot, staring intensely at the flame beneath it. She reached out her finger and ran it through the flame. She didn't notice his presence as the water boiled, and she poured some into a cup. She paused for a moment and stared down at the tea, then seemed to shake herself out of it. Reaching up into the cupboard, she pulled down a second cup and filled it too. Grabbing both cups, she turned. "Erik, what are you doing?" she asked, startled.

"Wondering what you were doing," he stated simply.

"Making some tea for you. Here," she said, shoving it into his hands. She pushed past him and sat down on the steps. She looked as though she was trying very hard to avoid thinking of something. Erik wondered what it was. "She did very well."

"Indeed. She has the voice of an angel." Cecily realized how tightly she was clutching her teacup and loosened up a bit. He continued, not noticing, "I am glad the managers will have finally realized the proper place for her is as prima donna."

"Your constant prodding doesn't help much."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

She realized then that she had said too much. Sighing, she figured she may as well spit it out before he pried it from her. "It seems that Christine's little disappearing act was too much. They have decided to cast Carlotta as the Countess in Il Muto."

As expected, Erik raged. He flung his cup against the wall, shattering it and spreading shards across the floor. "What! How dare they! Against my express orders! And that screech owl came crawling back! I thought she had flown away for good! And I'm sure that little rat of a boy had something to do with this!" He laid his hands heavily on the organ keys, forcing Cecily to cover her ears against the volume.

"Erik!" she screamed. "Stop it this instant! I had nothing to do with this, so do not seek to punish me for it! I have taken enough of your abuses!"

He stopped suddenly, the glowing rage having dulled into a cold calculation. "So, it is to be war between us! If my demands are not met, a disaster beyond their imagination will occur!"

Cecily sprang up, ignoring a twinge of protestation from her knee. "Erik, you will listen to me now!" She spun him around bodily, forcing him to look at her. "You will not take out your disappointment on them. Or anyone else," she added pointedly. "You are an artist, and if Christine is as good as you say…"

"She is better!"

"Then the managers will have to come around soon enough!"

Erik suddenly looked down at her as if seeing her for the first time. "You are crying," he wondered.

"You were scaring me Erik. I hate to see you look like that." She wiped away the tears from her eyes and picked her teacup up from the steps. "I have to go, Erik. I will talk with you later."

She hurried out the passage, leaving Erik to his music.


	48. Apprehension

Cecily watched from a chair in the corner of the dressing room as seamstresses stitched and tucked madly. They always seemed to wait until the last minute to fix these things. Of course, it didn't help that Carlotta always seemed to wait until the last minute to show up. Cecily turned her head a little to the left, trying to imagine the costume in the bright lights of the stage. "Tuck up the sleeve a bit more. It will cast shadow."

The seamstress nodded and made the correction. "Do that to the rest. If you need anything, find Linnea. She'll be able to help."

Cecily trudged from the room, doing her best to ignore the pain in her knee, which had been bothering her awfully for nearly a week. The dull ache in her stomach didn't help either. She hadn't seen or heard from Erik since she had told him about Carlotta's casting, and that worried her. Erik wasn't one to let a grudge drop easily, and his mind was surely capable of concocting a truly diabolical plot.

Besides all of that, Linnea and Fabrizio were leaving early the next week for Italy. Fabrizio's family was anxiously awaiting the couple, and preparations for a grand wedding were already taking place. As a wedding gift, Fabrizio's grandfather was giving him his inheritance early: a striking vineyard near the rest of the family. Linnea had a fairy tale life before her, and Cecily smiled whenever she thought of Linnea's enthusiasm for telling the story.

But she couldn't always smile, and now she found herself on the verge of tears. She felt very much alone with Fabrizio and Linnea leaving, especially now that Erik was unreachable.

Cursing under her breath, Cecily turned the corner and ran headlong into Joseph Buquet. She hated the man so much it made her stomach curdle to think of him. Smelling his breath and standing next to his ugliness was almost too much to bear. Not bothering to hide her disregard for him, Cecily tried to push past. "Not so fast there, missy."

Cecily had had enough, and whirling around and planting her cane firmly on his left foot and leaning her weight down, she hissed, "Buquet, I swear to you on everything holy and unholy, if you try to touch me again, I will run you through."

The man's face paled a little, and he backed off, his hands raised in surrender. Something in her eyes made him think she was telling the truth, and that she and followed through on those threats before.

Feeling the remains of the rage coursing through her, Cecily plopped herself down next to the Vicomte in the front row. His face was lined with worry, and though she tried to ignore it, Cecily found herself asking what was the matter. "Nothing," he shrugged, refocusing on the last minute practices. Soon enough his thoughts found their way to other things, and again Cecily inquired. "It's just, well, something doesn't feel right. Certainly we have done the right thing, but I can't help this nagging feeling."

Despite her similar feelings, Cecily patted his hand in comfort. "It will be alright. I'm sure only good will come of this." He nodded distractedly and got up.

She wandered backstage, anxious for something to do in the hours preceding the opera. Mme Giry pounded her cane on the stage, her face unusually grim. "Madam?" queried Cecily.

Turning hastily around, Mme Giry nodded curtly at Cecily. "Do you feel it too? Half the staff feels it, and I'll be hanged if you don't, being who you are." She stopped, looked around, and continued quietly. "I tell you, his curse is on the opera, and I fear the outcome of this insistence." She turned her eyes to the shadows as if seeing something, but shook her head. "Tell me nothing is wrong."

Something was making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and Cecily bit her lip. "I can't."

"What?"

"I feel it the same as you. Something is happening, but whether it is his doing or not, I'm not sure."

Mme Giry narrowed her eyes, giving Cecily a look that read, "Of course he is. He is behind everything that happens in this place." Then she moved to correct the dancers, whom she had, in her vigilance, been watching the whole time.

"This place is getting spookier by the minute." She moved through the dark behind the last curtain, gasping when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"I should rather like to speak with you, Cecily."


	49. Conversations in the Dark

Cecily turned, the unexpected contact making her bring her cane up in defense. It connected soundly with flesh, and only when the man groaned did she truly see what she had done.

Before her, now down on one knee, was Nicholai. Immediately filled with regret, she knelt next to him, looking for where she had hit him. "I'm so sorry! It's just that here, when someone comes after you, it's mostly better to act first and think later."

"It's alright, I should have announced myself." Grimacing slightly, Nicholai brought himself to his feet. "My hip will be fine. I am just grateful that it was my hip you hit, and not…other places."

Cecily blushed, thankful for the shadows to hide it. "What, what was it you wanted to speak to me about?"

"About joining the Count and I in our box for this evening's performance. We, I, should rather enjoy your company."

Cecily considered for a moment. She had responsibilities backstage, but perhaps she could get a few taken by others… "I will do what I can, Nicholai. Alas, I cannot guarantee."

He nodded, his eyes burning into her in a way that reminded her of Erik. "Will you tell me before the opera begins? I will wait for you at the top of the Grand Staircase."

She smiled and dropped her eyes from his. "Of course."

"Very good. I must go; I have business to attend to for the Count. But I will see you this evening."

"Yes," she replied, doing her best to hold back the grin that was edging in on her. Turning back toward the exit, Cecily didn't jump when the hand landed on her shoulder this time. "Nicholai, I thought you had left."

"We both know I never leave this place, and I am hardly your precious Nicholai."

"Erik! I thought…And what do you mean by 'your precious Nicholai?'"

"Yes, Erik. I can see you out here seducing him for all to see! The way your hand lingers on his! The blush that creeps up your face every time he's near! Do you think I'm blind?"

His grip on her shoulder had prevented her from turning, but she suddenly threw all of her weight into it. Facing him, she searched his eyes for something. "What has become of you Erik? Since all this business with Christine started, you've not been yourself. You've been ornery, stubborn, sometimes cruel, and you've avoided me. When you do come visit me, you are cross. What has happened?"

Something in her tone took him aback and for a moment he was speechless, considering his words carefully. "I will repair all the damages done to you tonight." Without another word, he was gone.

Cecily leaned against the wall, pushing back tears that Erik's outburst had brought to the surface. "Stupid ignorant man! Who does he think he is to speak to me so?" She took a deep breath to steady herself, biting her tongue to keep from continuing her thoughts. Why couldn't he tell that the things he saw her do for Nicholai were the same things she did in his presence? He was blind.

Straightening herself, Cecily made a decision. If he was going to ignore her, then she wouldn't waste her heart on him. She resolved to spend the evening with Nicholai, far from the uncertainties of the backstage. Still, even as she walked to the stairs, she suppressed a small voice wishing that the box she was spending the evening in was Box 5.


	50. Friend and Phantom

A/N: This chapter really launches things into the story line. I have a bit on the "Six months of relief," and then things should really get interesting. Oh, and much of this chapter that is song in the movie and the musical is simply spoken here. People, even those living in an opera house, do not traditionally burst into song to express every emotion. Enjoy, my lovely readers!

Cecily stood at the top of the staircase, gazing down over the crowd of impeccably dressed ladies and gentlemen. After last week's intrigue, the opera house was nearly bursting at the seams from all of the interested nobles. Each woman to enter was more elaborately dressed than the one before, and Cecily felt very plain in her simple gown. She turned away from the entrance and took a deep breath. Why was she so nervous?

"Cecily! So you can join us then?" Nicholai stood anxiously in front of her.

"I should hope so," chimed the Count, "looking as good as that."

"Thank you. I actually thought I was rather too plain in this crowd." She gestured toward a lady who seemed to be wearing three times the worth of the entire set and costumes for Il Muto about her neck.

The Count shook his head emphatically. "Hardly, hardly my dear. Simplicity is splendid. Those overgrown peacocks do not hold a candle. Not hardly." He smiled over at her, and she responded in kind.

"Shall we be off, then?" Nicholai asked, placing Cecily's hand in the crook of his arm.

"Yes, yes, of course." The Count started off, leaving Nicholai and Cecily to follow.

"I see you were relieved of your duties," noted Nicholai.

"Yes, a dear friend of mine was willing to see to some things." She smiled sadly.

"What is it?"

"It is just that she is leaving this week. She will be marrying the lead tenor. They're a beautiful pair and will lead a happy life, but I can't help feeling that I will be left all alone."

Nicholai paused in the back hallway that led to their box. "You will never be left all alone." A chill ran down Cecily's spine at the intensity of his words, and she stood speechless. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly before continuing on their way.

The Count was already seated when they arrived. Nicholai seated her first, then took a seat next to her. The lights dimmed, and the opera began. It went well enough, and Cecily breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps Erik would let things be. When she felt Nicholai's hand brush her gloved ones, she smiled softly in the darkness. She slid hand slightly under his, and he took the hint, lacing his fingers in hers. Cecily continued to watch the opera, but that was not where her concentration lay.

Subconsciously, she began to mouth the words to "Poor Fool." It was a song that the chorus had practiced many times, and Cecily was glad that their work had paid off. The song was going splendidly. The feeling creeping up her neck was almost ignorable. Almost.

She tensed, and Nicholai felt it. "What is wrong? Are you alright?"

She forced herself to relax and smile. "Fine, fine." She squeezed his hand in reassurance, an action that suddenly turned to fear.

"Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?" The voice rose in anger, a voice that was all too familiar. She turned to her left. Sure enough, there sat Raoul, brazen enough to have taken Box 5. Stupid boy! What was going to happen? Cecily's heart was in her throat, and she couldn't move. Nicholai clutched her arm to steady her.

His voice wrapped around her, sealing her in a cold cocoon. On stage, Christine was saying something, something Cecily couldn't make out…

She began to shake when the voice rang through the auditorium again. "A toad, madam? Perhaps it is you who are the toad…" Her breath caught in her throat, and she turned to Nicholai. "You have to leave. Something is wrong, very, very wrong."

"What is it?" His whisper was half-drowned out by Carlotta's voice as she attempted to restart the opera.

"Serafimo, away with this pretense! You cannot speak, but kiss me in my…" The sound that emerged from the diva's throat was so repulsive that every audience member cringed.

"Just go!' urged Cecily, her stomach growing tighter. "Please, Nicholai, I don't want anything to happen to you!"

"I won't leave you in danger, Cecily."

She put her hand to his face. "I cannot explain now," she whispered as Carlotta emitted another shriek. "I will be safe, but I worry for you."

"Cecily…"

"Please, Nicholai. Just go." Laughter rose through the air, a cruel maniacal laughter. She had heard Erik laugh before, and it had normally been a sweet sound, warm and beautiful like his music. This was no longer Erik. This was the Phantom. And the Phantom did not rest until his plan was completed. "Go!"

Confused, Nicholai nodded and slipped out, Cecily watched him until he was in the entry, where formal guards were posted. Erik would not harm him so obviously. He was safe.

The laughter started again, louder this time. She ran from the box and down the stairs. "Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!"

"No, Erik, not that," she breathed, running faster for the stage. Her knee throbbed under the stress, but the fear in Cecily's mind overcame it. As she approached the stage, the managers were desperately trying to entertain the unnerved crowd with the ballet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please! The performance will continue in ten minutes' time when the role of Countess will be played by Miss Christine Daae." The distraught girl was pulled on stage, then back behind the curtain to change costumes.

"There Erik! You have your way, now leave it in peace!" But she knew it was not to be.

Above her, the catwalks were shaking. A long black shadow pulled her eye, and she began to climb to the top. The violent shaking of the cables made it difficult, and her hand slipped several times. "No, Erik, no, stop," she mumbled. She glanced down. Meg was out of step, her eyes constantly glancing upward. "Meg, don't look at this. Something is happening I don't think anyone wants to see."

One last violent shake threw her from the ladder. She groaned emptily, the wind knocked out of her. Above her, where all eyes could see, dangled the still-twitching body of Joseph Buquet. Screams erupted in the audience, and terrified ballet girls ran from the stage toward their dressing room. Cecily heard the swirl of a cloak beyond all the chaos, and her eyes caught his burning green ones. Then he was gone.

She took a painful breath and rose to her feet, and was immediately nearly knocked back off them as Christine hurried past, her face twisted with fright and Raoul in tow. "No! To the roof! We'll be safe there!"

The roof. Now that Nicholai was safe, she turned her attention to the young couple. Raoul was in danger, and depending on her actions, possibly Christine as well. She had to get there before them. She had to stop him!

Darting to the wall, she ripped open the door to the labyrinth. "Damn all this uphill! Why doesn't anything happen on ground level!" At the end, she paused. There was noise from the other side, and Cecily didn't want to barge in and make things worse. "As if they could be worse at the moment," she thought, her mind casting back to the image of the dying Joseph Buquet.

"All I want is freedom, Raoul, just a world with no more night. And to have you always beside me to hold and hide me." The voice was Christine's, and Cecily was certainly happy she hadn't barged in on this. But where was Erik, surely he had followed them up here? "Order your fine horses, then!" Christine exclaimed, a joy in her voice that had not been there in a long time. "Wait for me at the door!"

Risking a little, Cecily peeked out the door. Raoul kissed Christine as they began the descent down the stairs. She stepped out into the cold night air, letting the chill settle her frantic body. Perhaps things would not get worse after all.

"I gave you my music. I made your song take wing! And now, this is how you've repaid me: you've denied me and betrayed me!" The sorrow in Erik's voice cut Cecily to the quick, but her eyes searched the roof for any sign of him. There! Next to the statue of Nike, he was knelt in the snow, his focus on something in his hands. What was it?

"He was bound to love you when he heard you sing! Christine! Oh, Christine!" Erik's body shuddered, and Cecily wanted so badly to run to him and comfort him. She would have too, if Raoul and Christine's words had not floated back up the stairwell to Erik and Cecily's ears. Their confessions of love to one another were too much for the already broken man to stand. His frame stiffened and he dropped the thing from his hand. It was a perfect rose, tied with a black ribbon. Christine must have dropped it.

Erik climbed the statue, positioned like a rider on a horse between the goddess of victory's wings. "You will curse this day!" He screamed into the air like a madman. "The day that you refused all that the Phantom asked of you!" He whipped around, his keen senses picking up something behind him. He caught the closing of the door in the gargoyle. There were footsteps in the snow. So the righteous little busybody had seen. "Cecily, what have I told you about that curiosity of yours? Curiosity did, after all, kill the cat."


	51. The Result of Folly

"My 'at! Where is my 'at?" Carlotta stormed through the opera house, screaming at whomever had the misfortune to cross her path. Three days after the tragic performance, Carlotta seemed to be back up to her normal self, and her screech was most assuredly repaired. Needless to say, she never again used throat spray.

Cecily sat in the front row, her leg propped up in front of her, ice packed around it. All the movement of a few days before had aggravated her knee something terrible, and she leaned on her crutch more heavily than ever. Carlotta approached her, still screaming. "Where is my 'at?"

Cecily took a deep breath. "I don't know where your damned hat is, Signora. Besides the fact that rehearsal was supposed to have begun more than an hour ago, an hour that you have used to flounce around the opera calling for your hat, which no one seems to know where it is. Perhaps the Phantom has it!" She knew she had gone too far with the comment about the Phantom, but she just didn't care. She was too tired, too sad, too empty.

Carlotta's face paled as she tried to maintain composure. "I'm sure I will find it soon. Perhaps it is in my room. But now is time for practice, si?"

Cecily look up, now annoyed at the Spanish lady, "Si."

Carlotta moved hastily toward the stage, leaving Cecily to move the ice around her knee. She bit her lip, but the pain was only half physical. She was wracking her brain for what Erik could do, for she knew he would do something. The questions were what, and just as importantly, when?

Christine was living outside the opera house now, for her own safety as well as for the safety of the other residents of the opera. Raoul had ensured that she was never left alone, with either a servant or himself with her at all times. The lineup of operas had been altered, with the first two shows being postponed for a fortnight. It gave time for the cast and crew to regain their confidence, and for the gossip to die down among the Paris elite. It had been Cecily's recommendation, and though M. Firmin had not been thrilled with the refunded tickets, he knew that it was best in the long run. The doors of the opera house had been closed to the public since that night, and would reopen in a week's time.

Cecily was also a bit agitated because she had not seen or heard from Nicholai or the Count since she had fled the box. What if Erik had found him? What if she had been too hasty in her decision that he was safe? Oh, dear God, what if…?

"Cecily, what happened? I thought you said you would be safe!"

"Nicholai!" Cecily stood hastily and threw her arms around his neck.

"Well, that's a welcome I won't forget," he laughed lightly. "Yes, I'm here. Can I take that as a sign that you've been as worried about me as I have been about you?" She nodded. Her tendons rebelled against her and her knee bent under her. Nicholai caught her and set her gently back down in the chair. "But perhaps my worry has been more justified. What happened?"

She shook her head and laboriously straightened her knee. "Self-inflicted, regrettably. I did a bit more dashing about than my bad knee liked. The result of folly," she muttered, indicating her leg.

"You need to have that looked at. The Count has retained an excellent doctor…"

"Really, Nicholai, there's no need. All I need is a few days rest."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "You won't get that here."

She smiled, a genuine smile for the first time in days. "No, but here is where I am."

"We could fix that. The Count is going to spend a week at his home in Marseilles. Perhaps you would care to join us?"

Her eyes brightened. "Marseilles? You want me to come with you?"

"Of course. It will help to take your mind off…things."

"I would love to! But…"

"But you must get permission from M. Andre and M. Firmin. Already done. They have given you one week. They quite insisted that it be no longer, but they could not deny you a bit of a break in light of all the stress."

"You really are amazing, Nicholai, making all the preparations beforehand. What if I had said no, hmm?" she teased.

He leaned over and whispered in her ear. "You would not have said no." A pleasant shiver sped down her spine at the tone in his voice. It reminded her of something that she couldn't place. A good something.

He stood and kissed her hand. "Tomorrow morning then? Around nine? Our train departs at ten. I will fetch you."

She could do no more than nod.


	52. Relations and Stories

"You're going to Marseilles with a Russian Count! Cecily!" Linnea was moving methodically through Cecily's room, helping her to pack. Linnea's room had been mostly packed for weeks, the excitement of her upcoming marriage having fueled her efforts.

"Not exactly with the Count, Linnea. With his, well, friend, I suppose. I'm not really sure what to call Nicholai's relationship with the Count."

Linnea raised an eyebrow and smirked. "I don't think it's Nicholai's relationship with the Count that we should be trying to name at the moment."

"Linnea!" Cecily cried in protest, but the light in her eyes and the blush on her cheek betrayed her. She lowered her voice. "What do you think?"

"I think he is quite a fine man. He speaks French, you speak Russian, so communication is not an issue, and he obviously has good connections," Linnea said airily.

Cecily threw a pillow at her friend. "Oh stop that! You know what I mean!"

Linnea sat down next to her friend. "I think he loves you Cecily, and he's only met you a few times."

"Truly?"

"Of course!" Linnea bounced back off the bed and returned to the armoire. She began to rummage through the various dresses. "No, no, too stuffy. No, this is for work. Hardly. No, and what is this?" Linnea pulled a dress from the back of the wardrobe, a dress that Cecily had not seen in a very long time. "I've never seen this before! It's beautiful, wherever did you get it?"

The dress was still the color of the sea before a storm, and time had not diminished its beauty. She felt a pang in her heart at the memory of simpler times, but pushed them away. "You've seen it before. It was so long ago though, soon after I arrived here. Erik sent it to me. Remember?"

"Ah, yes, Erik. Whatever happened to him?" She began to fold the dress into the chest.

"He…" Cecily paused. What had happened to him? "He was not the man I thought he was."

"Ah, I see." If only she did see! If only someone else knew and understood, that she loved the man who caused everyone such pain. That she wished he would forget Christine for far more reasons than anyone else!

Linnea continued to go through Cecily's wardrobe, picking and choosing. Finally, she closed the lid on the trunk. "All done." She sat next to Cecily again. Both of their stomachs were turning, though neither wanted to admit it.

"All done," Cecily repeated, and both knew she was not referring to the packing. She took a deep breath. "I have something for you, Linnea." She stood slowly, leaning on her cane.

"Cecily, you didn't have to…"

"I know," she said quietly, and Linnea didn't protest again. "Here." She handed Linnea a small notebook wrapped with cord.

"What is it?"

"A story." Cecily looked away from her friend for a moment, and her eyes found the hidden panel, but only for a moment.

"I didn't know you wrote stories!"

"I don't." Linnea looked at her questioningly. "You will understand better when you read it. But don't read it until you've settled in. I think it will be best read like that. When you are happy."

Linnea looked at the volume with interest and concern. Cecily was melancholy, to be sure, and she hated leaving her in such a state. She was tempted to take the book back to her room and read the whole thing that evening, but she would honor Cecily's request. Surely there was no harm in waiting to read a simple story! "Thank you, Cecily. Thank you so much." The two women embraced, then Linnea went to the door. I suppose we both need our sleep then. I will see you tomorrow?"

Cecily squeezed her hand. "Of course. Sleep well, Linnea."

"Good night, Cecily."

The door closed behind Linnea, and Cecily collapsed onto the bed. Two other copies of the story lay on her desk, similarly packaged. One label was blank, the other had only an S written on it. She had now told someone of her connection to the Phantom of the Opera had now been explained to someone, but it was a story she could not simply tell. Linnea would read the tale and Cecily's explanation, and that knowledge raised a bit of burden from Cecily's shoulders.

Laying down, she pushed her mind to the next day rather than linger on lost years. Tomorrow she would be strong. She would not cry. She would not look back. She would avert her gaze from the opera house, and Paris with it, and look only toward the south, to a house by the sea in Marseilles.


	53. Slipping

Cecily rose early, unable to sleep. The opera house was ghostlike in the hours just before dawn, most of the revelry from the night before having ended and a deep, alcohol-induced sleep overrunning the opera house. Her stomach was too tight for food, but she wanted to see the sunrise. Slipping into the pitch-black tunnel, she put her weight on her cane and felt her way with her hand.

The sun slipped above the horizon of Paris. The clouds were tinted red; storms were on their way. Cecily walked forward, the snow of a few nights before having melted and refrozen into thin sheets of ice. She grasped a gargoyle by the ear, struggling to keep her balance. The ear moved under her touch, and her cane tumbled down a set of stairs revealed behind the panel. "Forgot about that one. Ah well…" She made to retrieve it.

One step down, a black gloved hand grasped her wrist, roughly placing the cane back into her hand. "Presuming to find me again? I think not."

"Erik? Erik, please, what is wrong? I didn't…"

"Do not try to deceive me! I know you were here! And did you not like the gift I gave you at the performance?"

"What gift?" Realization dawned on her, and her eyes widened. "Oh my God! Erik, Buquet! You did not…not for me…" She gasped for breath.

"Did I not tell you I would repair the damages done you? Was he not torturous to you?"

She looked into his eyes, trying to find the kind, gentle man she knew. She could not find him. "But you killed him."

"He was an inconvenience. And if you continue your path, you may become an inconvenience to me as well."

"Then do it now."

"What?" he spat.

She jerked her wrist from his grasp and repeated. "Then do it now. If I am such an inconvenience to you, _Phantom_, then end it now." He said nothing, but a hint of Erik appeared in his eyes. "If not, I must go. I must say goodbye to the only friends I have left in this city, before I depart."

"Depart? For where?"

She was emboldened by his withdrawal. "Does the Phantom not know all the goings on in _his_ opera house? Surely you know that I will be leaving Paris!"

"For what reason?"

"Because I wish to escape the _inconveniences_," she emphasized the word, "of being in the opera house."

She turned, and promptly fell flat on her bottom. When she stood, Erik was gone.


	54. The Brink of Madness

How long had passed? Did it matter? Hunched over the organ in this darkness, every day seemed to run into the next. A stale breeze floated through the cavern, and the flames flickered. "Damn!" Erik slammed his pen down onto the shelf next to him, running his hand through his hair. He was on edge, more so than usual. Taking a deep breath to regain the control he was so used to, he picked up the pen and tried to write. The music flowed through him as always, but the words were halting and useless.

"When the two of us are one, no longer think of others… No!" He swept his hand across the organ, sending paper, pen, and candelabra flying. Now engulfed by the darkness, he set his head in his hands. "I must finish this! All my well made plans!" The smell of smoke brought him to his senses, and he whipped around. Some papers in the corner were burning with the flame from the discarded candles. Standing quickly, he stomped out the flames, then knelt to examine the damage. A few small drawings, plans for the opera house, set designs, all relatively unimportant, but beneath them, the edges charred, were two portraits.

The first was of Christine in full costume as Elissa. She had done splendidly, and her voice had exceeded what she had demonstrated even with him. Her innocent beauty paired perfectly with the pastoral backdrop, and her voice, ah, her voice! What more exquisite pleasure was there than to listen to that angelic voice?

Carefully placing the new sketch on the shelf, he examined the second portrait. This one was older, and the flames had licked at the likeness rather than only the edges. It was of Cecily, in time long past. He had drawn it when she had first returned to him. She was young, but her eyes were still haunted by some unknown pain. No, not unknown. The wretchedness of her childhood mirrored his own. Yet it was he whose ugliness drove the world away. It was he who sat in this rotting dungeon while she flitted across the French seaside with that Russian prat. It was he who was tortured by every thought of her, yet she seemed to have nearly forgotten him!

His stomach tightened, and a deep rage came upon him. Roaring in anger, he threw the portrait into the flames of the fireplace. Watching it burn, he felt release in his heart. No more would she stand above others in his mind. No longer would she distract him from his love of Christine! Never again would he care more for her than for the other occupants of the opera house. She was dead to him. And he was quite sure at that moment that if the need arose, he could carry out his threats.

He returned to the organ, feeling words begin to flow with the music. "Past the point of no return the final threshold - the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn!" His voice rose in hysteria, unaware that the burning portrait was rising, settling on the frame which hid his beloved Christine's wedding gown. "We've passed the point of no return . . ."


	55. If You Should Like

A/N: I felt there is a small irony that needed sharing. I'm sorry if you think it didn't. As I've written this story, I've used less and less French. Not ironic in and of itself, but the fact that almost 2 months ago I moved to a French speaking country for the year makes it slightly more strange. Why don't I use more French? I really should.

However, without further ado, the next chapter.

---

Cecily stared out at the water, the waves lapping at her bare feet as she sat on the rock. The moon was full, and the light danced on the water as she had never seen it do before. The sea was truly amazing. It was a shame that the week was over so soon.

From the house, the final strains of the quartet faded into the night, and Cecily could hear the last of the carriages leaving the house. It had been a grand party, with all of the Count's acquaintances of any importance. She had mingled and danced and had an amazingly good time. Who would have ever known that the same nobles who pranced about in ridiculous finery at the opera house could have a genuinely good time?

She had slipped out nearly an hour before, tired of talking of a world she had no true place in. The waves whispered words that she was more familiar with, words of silence and freedom. It was completely improper to have removed her shoes, but Cecily hadn't been able to help it. The warm water and the constant waves had called to her, and there she was, glad that none of the party-goers had recognized her.

Tomorrow they would take the train back to Paris, and the fairy tale she had been living for a week would end. Nicholai had been most generous, and he and the Count had taken her everywhere that she could have wanted to go on the trip. They had eaten fine foods, drank perfectly-aged wine, gone boating, to concerts, to shops, everywhere. To tell the truth, Cecily felt a little guilty at all the extravagance, but Nicholai had always whispered in her ear that she was worth far more than finery.

Nicholai. She bit her lip to fight off a blush just at the thought of him. He was truly amazing. He had formally asked for her permission to court her on the train. She, of course, had granted it. It had been a most wise decision.

"Cecily? Is that you out there?"

She turned, watching the young Russian walk down the beach to her. "Yes, I'm here. Come sit with me!"

"But your shoes must be…" he spotted the discarded shoes on a rock. "Ah, I see."

"I'm sorry!" she cried. "I'm not much for being a fine lady, I know."

He sat above her on the rock, looking down at her with a smile in his eyes. "I much prefer you this way, you know."

"Do you?"

"Oh yes," he said with mock seriousness. "Fine ladies are always so busy being ladylike that they have no time to be a lover."

"And I do?"

"If you should like to."

She licked her lips hesitantly. He had laid the choice in front of her, and all she could do was stare at it. "I would."

Slowly, Nicholai moved down on the rock, wrapping his arms around her waist as he did so. He drew her close, and Cecily relaxed into him. She felt his fingers tracing her jaw and looked up at him. He was so close. So very close…

"May I kiss you?" She could feel his breath on her lips as he asked. She nodded. It truly was a pity that the week was over so soon.

They held each other for awhile longer, watching the moon set. Cecily's breathing became slow and even, and Nicholai gently lifted her up. She clutched sleepily at him. "Not Aminta now," she whispered quietly. He wondered what that meant as he laid her in her bed, calling the maids to change her. When they left to fetch her nightgown, he leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead.

"Sleep well, dear one. Dream well."


	56. Returning to the Opera House

Cecily had no sooner walked into the opera house than she was beset by anxious managers. The opera house had been eerily quiet, and it was putting them on edge. Cecily did her best to reassure them, but dodged into her room as quickly as she could. Shrugging out of her traveling dress and into a more comfortable one, Cecily sighed. Back to daily life.

A knock on her door startled her, but she quickly called for the person to enter. "Ah, Cecily, there you are." Mme Giry settled herself into a chair, a sign that she obviously had something she wanted to say. "I was quite sure Firmin and Andre would run themselves crazy this past week. You've returned just before the event actually. Rather good timing."

Cecily smiled cynically and continued to unpack. "Any, disturbances, when I was gone?"

"Not a sound. Or an apparition, as the case may be."

"Strange that." She put away the dress that Nicholai had insisted on buying her on the opposite side of the armoire from the dress Erik had given her. It made her slightly uneasy to put them together.

"I thought so too. It has never happened before." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "He does not forget."

Cecily looked up suddenly. "I know, and it scares me."

Mme Giry patted her hand comfortingly. "On a happier note, I do believe there are several personal letters that arrived while you were gone waiting on your desk. And Linnea and Fabrizio promised to send a message when they arrived."

"Oh, that's wonderful! I do hope all goes well for them." Her voice held a trace of sadness, but she shook it off. "And where is Meg? I didn't see her practicing when I walked past earlier."

"Alas, no! It seems that the young Vicomte has insisted that Christine live 'comfortably,' and ensured she had the funds to do so. And Meg is often invited on her shopping excursions." She shook her head, but looked happy for her only daughter. "And several parties as well."

"She will be well known among the gentry then," Cecily added hopefully.

"Yes, yes indeed." Mme Giry opened the door. "Well, then, I shall speak with you later."

Cecily nodded and put the last of her things in their place. Mme Giry had mentioned letters in her office, which should be the next order of business. But whoever were they from?

Plopping unceremoniously down at her desk, Cecily surveyed the damage. Papers were piled on her desk, all of which required time to wade through. Happily, she noted that none were marked with the telltale red skull. Opening the first letter, she smiled. The postmark was from Australia. "So you made it indeed, M. LeFevre." The letter spoke of the wilds and wonderful things he had seen on the continent ("You would not believe the strange creatures they have here!"), the harrowing journey to reach it ("I do believe we sailed through several monsoons."), and of the acquaintances he had made ("A most interesting fellow has promised to show me the highlights of Sydney.") He wished her the best in the keeping of the opera house, hoped she wasn't having too many "troubles," and said that perhaps he would come back to visit after his trip.

Smiling, she laid the letter aside to take back to her room. Then she reached for the second. The postmark was from within France, and she wondered who would write her that was not in the opera house. Unfolding the letter, her eyes wandered to the bottom. "Oh my God." She slouched in her chair and the letter fell from her hands. "Oh my God."


	57. A Meeting

Cecily sat at the café table, anxiously sipping her tea. She glanced at the clock in the corner. Already ten past, where was she? She pulled out the letter again, scanning it just to verify the time. Ten minutes late. Her heart beat a little faster, and she pressed her foot into the floor to keep her leg from bouncing.

The door opened, and a young woman walked in, hastily closing the door behind her against the winter cold. Cecily looked anxiously at her, hoping that the woman would come to her table. She did not.

"Where are you?" Cecily muttered to herself.

"Pardon?" A man stopped next to her, looking down at her strangely.

"Nothing, monsieur. Pardon me." He nodded and moved toward the door, holding open the door for a frail little slip of a girl.

The girl walked toward Cecily, then paused, unsure. "Cecily?"

Cecily practically jumped up from the table to pull out a chair for the girl. "Yes! Oh, my goodness! You have no idea how happy I am to have heard from you, to see you! Oh, my dear, dear girl! Let me look at you!"

The girl pulled back a bit, taking her seat. "You're causing quite the scene, Cecily."

Cecily sat down in her own chair. "Oh, I'm sorry, truly I am, but hearing from you after all this time… How did you find me, Sophie?"

The girl coughed into her handkerchief, and Cecily gave her a worried look. "Oh, it's just a little winter cough is all. I heard about you and your great work at the opera house."

Cecily laughed self-consciously. "Great work? Who have you been talking to?"

"Some clients who attend the opera. When they speak amongst themselves while waiting, I pick up bits and pieces."

"Clients? Where do you work?"

The girl bit her lip. "I used to work at a millenary. However, the proprietor took rather a dislike to me and dismissed me upon finding adequate replacement."

"Oh, Sophie! That's wretched! Something should be done!"

"Oh, hush," she said, reminding Cecily that the young woman before her was no longer the little sister she had left so long ago. "I will simply find another job."

"And until then, what are you doing for money?"

Sophie shrugged. "Living off what I have."

"Sophie, if you need something, money, a place to stay, anything, just let me know."

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice losing the harsh quality it had had. "I think I will be fine if I can get through the month."

Instinctively, Cecily reached for her clutch. "How much do you think you'll need?"

"Cecily, I really don't think…"

"How much?"

Sophie sighed. "Two hundred francs for rent and food in a normal month."

"Of course, of course," Cecily muttered, pulling out two hundred and fifty francs. "Here. Consider it a bit of makeup for all the years…all the years I couldn't do anything."

Sophie took the money silently and put it in her pocket. "Thank you so much. Now, how are things for you at the opera house? Do you have a beau?"

Cecily colored. "A beau? Well, yes, actually." She smiled embarrassed.

"Really?" Sophie leaned forward conspiratorially. "Do tell."

For the rest of the meeting, Sophie asked question after question about Cecily's life, and Cecily happily satisfied her sister's curiosity, all the while painfully aware of her own burning questions. When it came time to go, Cecily grabbed her sister's hand. "Where are you living? Can I visit you?"

Sophie shook her head quickly. "No, I'm living with a friend at the moment. But I'll come to the opera house soon. It has been a wonderful afternoon, Cecily."

"Yes, yes." Cecily embraced Sophie, biting back tears. "Well, we had better go before I make an even bigger scene than before."

Sophie laughed lightly. "Of course. One of these times I want to meet that man of yours."

"Oh, you will!" She kissed Sophie's cheek and started to walk down the road to the opera house. "Come soon!"

Sophie nodded and disappeared around the corner.


	58. The Work of Madness

The candle flickered, and Erik cursed loudly. "Can I do nothing in this place?" Grabbing the libretto he was working on, he stalked into the only room where the candles would not flicker and slammed the book down on the desk. In the corner, piles of red fabric were awaiting his needle. He would need to start on that soon if he wished to have it done in time for the Masquerade. Only two months left before his triumphant return. Had it truly been four months since he had last made himself known to the inhabitants of the opera?

He sat in the chair, rubbing his closed eyes. The feel of the right side of his face exposed to the open air taunted him, but the mask was too much to bear in this dark solitude. He may have allowed the opera house to think he had gone, but his rounds had continued. He knew every move, every word, every thought. He had to, to ensure that his plan went properly. And everything depended on that. After the masquerade, it would only be a matter of time until Christine would be his!

That little rat of a boy was deceiving her, giving her all the things that money could buy, trying to win her heart by such superficial beauty. When she heard his voice again, she would remember what beauty really was. And she would return to her angel.

Sighing, he turned to look at the open book before him. He moved to sweep aside the books that cluttered the desk now, the result of several days' worth of scouring his library for inspiration for a costume. He had, after all that time, had to design one himself, as none of the designs pleased him. "For all the knowledge here, nothing! Philosophy, science, religion, art! Nothing!" He glared down at the book of artists and scowled. It was this wretched book that had started his problems.

It was this book that had incited him to teach Cecily to read. To read, and then write, and then math and Russian. Russian, which had been so useful to her in her new courtship. The very thought soured his mouth, and he resisted the urge to spit. She had been all around the opera house with that blonde boy for months, smiling giddily and granting far too many kisses for a dignified woman. But after all, she was a heartless beast, a whore, not a woman after all.

But even she had secrets. For all the long talks she had with the Russian prat, she never once spoke a word of her meetings with Sophie. The word fell from her lips only in the privacy of her own room, and once with Mme. Giry. Most often it spilled from her pen. He smiled coldly. She had even stopped writing in that horrible Persian. His smile became a sneer as he remembered that it was instead Russian now.

Realizing he could not work on his opera in this state, he threw the book of art to the floor and took up his needle. Red death could consume his mind. Turn his thoughts away from the sweet torment of his angel of music, the wretchedness of his own state, and the cruelty of Cecily.

"Strange," he thought aloud, "how she had not even attempted to beseech me to change my mind." Making the first stitch into the prepared fabric, he laughed coldly. "Silly, silly Erik! She hasn't even the time to think of you, much less devise your plans! Far too concerned with her pretty little life to be thinking of ugly Erik!" His eyes narrowed. "Well, she too will get what comes to her. So many opportunities… But first, finish your plans. Then nothing else will matter. Christine will be mine."

---

A/N: Sorry for the incredible shortness, but another is nearly finished. Erik has been rather upset with me of late, and to appease the Phantom, this is what he gets. For those of you considering writing pieces of Erik's history, beware: he does not leave you alone once you have commenced. He haunted my footsteps the entire week I had off. I swear I saw him watching me from the corner while I was working on the house. So, my dear Phantom, here is your chapter. And don't worry, you're triumphant return is at hand.


	59. An Evening Out

Smiling contentedly, Cecily slipped into her desk chair. Another season completed, and after the obvious exceptions, not a single interruption from the Phantom. Season tickets for the upcoming run were already nearly all sold out, making Andre and Firmin incredibly happy. Marking the day's totals in her ledgers, she scanned the desk for anything pressing. Finding nothing, she stacked the papers carefully and hurried to her room.

It had been an especially good day. Nearly everyone had slept late, the revelry of the night before having had lasting effects on nearly everyone. She bit back a grin as she thought of a rather intoxicated Nicholai attempting to lead her back to her room, where the door was promptly shut and locked in his face. She had found him sleeping just outside it when she woke the next morning. Another telegram had come from Linnea; the baby would be born in August, and Fabrizio was nearly going crazy making sure that everything was comfortable for his young bride and the developing child. The Di Cicina family had been brilliantly accepting of Linnea, and her father-in-law had taken up a rather intensive study of French. She briefly wondered if Linnea had read the notebook Cecily had given her. Surely not, as such a tale would have inspired a reaction of some sort.

She had had another rendezvous with Sophie that afternoon. Sophie had paid for lunch at the café in celebration of her new job. A millenary on the other side of town had been more than happy to hire an experienced worker, and Sophie was rather excited. Again, she had brushed off Cecily's comments about her cough and the paleness of her skin, claiming that all she needed was to get outside a bit more; the dust and darkness were doing her no good.

And for this evening, Raoul had delivered a last-minute invitation the evening before for dinner at the de Chagny's city apartments. Nicholai had left after his rather unorthodox wakeup for London on business of the Count, so Cecily was attending alone. Upon hearing this, Raoul had laughed, winked, and insisted that neither he, nor his single older brother Philip, would mind in the least. He would be by around six o'clock to pick her up from the opera house. It was now five.

She shifted through her closet, deciding to wear the blue dress that Nicholai had bought her in Marseilles. Next to it hung her costume for the Masquerade the following week. Nicholai had become rather taken with the English legends of the Arthurian Court, and had insisted upon going as Lancelot. When Cecily had pointed out that Lancelot, while in love with Queen Guinevere, could not have her, he had rebutted with the fact that Lancelot did marry the Lady Elaina. In the end, Cecily had decided to go as the Lady in the Lake. It prevented her from having to play a truly English lady, while still being able to compliment Nicholai's costume. She would hate to have to be English, even for one night.

Arriving at the back door to the opera house at nearly the same moment as Raoul and his small carriage, Cecily was already a bit cold. The bite of autumn had come in full force, and she was glad for the shawl she had brought. Raoul alighted from the carriage to help her step up. "A vision of loveliness, my dear Cecily."

She shook her head and laughed. "Such golden words! You might well be Midas with all your compliments." She tucked the blanket around her as Raoul seated himself next to her.

"I would only ever speak the truth to you." He urged the horses onward, and regarded the other carriages uninterestedly.

"To me?" She chuckled, making Raoul aware of his slight mistake.

"Oh yes, I would be far too frightened that you would discover I was lying." He laughed, and noted her shiver. "Nearly there, just another block or two."

Cecily smiled at him, unable to do anything else in the joy of the moment. "So, who else will be joining us this evening?"

"Oh, just a few people. It's a rather informal dinner party. My brother Philip, several friends of ours, my sister Emelie, who is just fifteen, but who could leave her out when my parents are out of town?"

"No one, I'm sure. Especially not a doting older brother," Cecily commented, noting the look of protector that came into Raoul's eyes as he spoke of the girl. "Anyone else?"

"Just myself, Christine, and Meg."

"Meg? I haven't seen her all day."

"No, she's been with Christine, primping and such things as women do in their spare time. Although I dare say that Christine doesn't need much of it."

She pushed her arm slightly, eyebrow raised in amusement. "Head over heels already?"

He sighed, pulling into a small carriage house. "I fear it." He leaned conspiratorially toward her. "Can you keep a secret?"

"You dare ask that question of me?"

"Of course! What was I thinking?" He reached into his coat pocket and flipped open the case. Cecily saw the flash of gold before he quickly replaced it, eyes searching the room to make sure no one else had seen. "Tonight, after supper."

Cecily smiled and traced an X across her chest. "Cross my heart, I will not tell a soul."

Raoul smiled and jumped down, offering her a hand as well. "Here we are. Just one set of steps. And I do believe that the tempting scent is our upcoming repast."

Cecily inhaled. "Heavenly."

A rather boisterous male voice came down the steps. "Is that my little brother?"

Raoul hung his coat on the hook and took Cecily's shawl. "And our esteemed guest!" His voice held a tone of warning, and Cecily understood that Philip was to maintain a civil tongue in the presence of guests.

"Oh, Cecily!" Meg dashed down the stairs. "How wonderful to see you here! I'm so glad you could come! But where is Nicholai?"

"Business in London. But don't worry, he'll be back for the masquerade." Cecily winked at the girl, knowing that the gala had been on the girl's mind almost exclusively.

"Oh, wonderful! Christine and I went shopping for my costume today!"

"And?"

"A dove! It is the most adorable white dress, with feathers all around the collar and such! The woman at the shop said it was perfect for me!"

Moving up the stairs, Cecily nodded. "I'm sure it will be." The talk of the shop woman had her thinking of Sophie. She wondered briefly if she should invite Sophie to the masquerade, but pushed the thought aside for the moment. Now was not the time or the place for such worries. Now she should focus on having a good time.

At the top of the stairs, Philip awaited her. "My lady, it is an honor to meet you after all I've heard." He kissed her hand genteelly and led her to the table.

"Only good things I'd hope," she laughed, looking pointedly at Raoul, who had his hands up in mock defense.

"Is there anything else to say about you?" He laughed, showing Meg to a place at the table.

"Oh hush," Cecily laughed lightly. Turning back to Philip and his friends, she said, "You may call me Cecily, as I would hate to have constant calls of 'Miss Pencombe' ruin the perfectly wonderful atmosphere that we seem to have."

"In that case, call me Philip, and these rascals are Daniel and Michael," he indicated the two men behind him. "And that one over there is Laurent, though he is Raoul's worry." He laughed and slapped Laurent lightly on the back. "But come now, let us eat. Emelie! Are you joining us this evening, or have you made other plans?"

A young girl, pressing in on womanhood, entered the room. She was pretty, having the looks that seemed to run in her family, and appeared to have gone through great lengths to look presentable this evening. One of the girl's glances at Laurent informed Cecily of the reason, although she doubted that the others saw the valiantly concealed blush that crept up Emelie's cheeks when Laurent smiled at her. "Of course I'm coming Philip. Although I did have to send several admirers away in order to close my window. I told you that lattice would be a problem." Her eyes twinkled at she took her seat, and Cecily was convinced that the youngest of the De Chagny's would soon be the bell of every ball, if Laurent did not beg her indulgences the moment she stepped into society.

"Of course, I shall have it removed immediately. I can't imagine how tired you must be getting, huffing and puffing to blow away all those imaginary knights in shining armor." Philip smiled warmly at his little sister as everyone took their places around the table. "And now we await just one." He turned to Raoul, who shrugged and turned to Meg.

"She said she was directly behind me," Meg said, wondering like the rest.

"Oh, I'm here!" Christine rushed down the stairs and into the room. "Pardon me! I lost track of the time."

"It's nothing, my dear," Raoul soothed as he pulled out a chair for her. "But now that the ladies are all seated, let us begin the meal!"

Cecily laughed more that night than she had in a long time. Philip and his friends were full of amusing tales, and Emelie shot in quite a few witty replies to the baiting of her brothers. She reminded Cecily of Sophie a little, but this was a sentiment she kept to herself, as she did all thoughts of her sister. It seemed to Cecily, though, that the whole table was busy casting doe eyes at one another. Meg flirted shamelessly with Daniel and Michael, who were not insulted in the least by her attention. Emelie and Laurent discreetly exchanged glances, and Raoul stared hopelessly at Christine, who went between returning his lovelorn gaze and glancing out the window into the night. It seemed that only she and Philip were immune to the shots of cupid's arrows.

When the evening was over, Cecily bid a fond goodnight to all her recent acquaintances. Raoul, who had escaped somewhere with Christine soon after the dessert, returned to drive her home, a brilliant smile on his face. Christine entered soon after, smiling as well, with the notable addition of a small diamond ring hanging round her neck. Cecily shook her head as she tucked herself further into the blankets. It had been a good day.


	60. Giving Up

"And that little fool of a girl has decided that since Raoul is staying in the city apartment, she and he can't be living under the same roof now that they're engaged. I don't understand it at all, since Philip and Emelie are living there as well. But I suppose I'm not one to comment on propriety. I just can't believe she's insisting on moving back into the opera house until their wedding." Cecily shook her head and laughed lightly.

Sophie laughed too, but the laughter degraded into a ragged hacking. Sophie's small frame shuddered with the fit of coughing, and Cecily looked concernedly at her across the table. "You will go to the doctor, won't you? This doesn't sound like a passing chill."

Sophie nodded distractedly, wiping her mouth with her napkin. "Yes, yes of course. It rather should have passed by now, shouldn't it? I have an acquaintance who is quite talented at improving such things. I'll pay a visit to her tonight. Perhaps then, if I must, I will go to the doctor."

"Sophie."

"Oh, don't give me that look. I can't stand it when you do." She sipped her tea and suppressed another cough. "I'll be fine!"

Cecily shot her a disbelievingly look and finished he last of her tea. "Just take care of yourself."

Sophie gave her sister a mollifying smile over her tea cup. "Don't you have a masquerade to be getting ready for?"

"It's not as important as making sure you're all right."

"Oh do stop with that! It's getting rather dull. I will be fine. I will be here tomorrow and the next day and the next, if you catch it. But your knight in shining armor, Nicholai. He won't wait forever. Tonight you have to be ready for him. Although I do suppose that ring you've been playing with the entire meal might indicate he'll wait a bit longer."

Cecily grinned. "Yes, well, I've already told you about that. He gave it to me after he returned from London. Called it a 'Promise Ring,' but what it promises remains to be seen."

Sophie shook her head and glanced at the clock in the corner. "You really must get going! You can't keep the man waiting forever tonight!"

Cecily smiled girlishly at the thought of meeting Nicholai at the masque. "Well, if you're quite sure you don't want to come back with me…"

"I have already told you! I have to work tonight!"

"Yes, of course. Isn't it rather strange to be working that late? Do you have orders to catch up on?"

"Of a sort. There's a special bit that needs to be done. And that's that. I'll be caught up for awhile after tonight."

"Well, that's good." She sighed. "I suppose I really must go. Next week, the same?"

"Of course! Have a lovely evening!" Cecily kissed her younger sister's cheeks, then hurriedly left. It was dreadfully late to begin preparing. It was already 4 o'clock! She was sure that Christine and Meg would already be nearly finished. The entire opera house was preparing for tonight. The decorations had been completed that morning, and they were exquisite. M. Firmin hadn't even bawked at the price, so perfect had they been. Black and white were the theme colors, and they played well against each other, serving also to set off the colorful costumes.

Rushing up the back stairs to her room, Cecily met several half-made devils, clowns, jesters, and soldiers. The alcohol had already made an appearance, and a china doll was draped lethargically over several stairs. Cecily and Meg had been allowed to use her room to prepare, and that was where she found them. Meg was in her costume, with the wings laid on the bed so as to not be ruffled overly much before her appearance tonight.

Christine was lounging about in her underskirt and corset, waiting until the last minute to put on her dress. As she was attending with Raoul, not as a member of the opera house, her costume was simpler, a court dress. Raoul would arrive to collect her beforehand for dinner.

"Where have you been? You should have been here _hours_ ago!" Christine opened the armoire and began to search for Cecily's costume. Suddenly she stopped. "This is a fine dress! I haven't seen you wear it in ages! You really should pull it out more often." She pulled out a corner of the gown to admire it. "Perfect color, the blue-gray, I think. Do you still fit into it after all? If you don't, I would be more than happy to relieve you of it."

Cecily crossed the room and took the dress from Christine's hands. "Yes, it still fits." She pulled out her Lady of the Lake costume and locked the armoire. Christine shrugged and moved over to help Meg with her hair. Cecily stepped behind the dressing curtain and struggled to put on her corset. "Could one of you come help me with this?"

"Just a moment!" Meg set down her brush and hurried over. Several quick tugs and short breaths later, Cecily was ready to slide into her costume. Lengths of blue fabric cascaded around her, and Cecily smiled.

Christine regarded her from a chair. "You need your hair braided. It's such a pretty color in the candle light. And a little egg-white wouldn't hurt to pale your face."

Cecily smiled patronizingly at the girl. "A braid would be nice, thank you." Christine stood up, allowing Cecily to take her place. A few minutes of endless chatter and quick-moving hands later, Cecily's hair was done. "And now, I must ask for a few minutes alone to finish up. Don't forget your wings, Meg!" The two girls left, giggling and conspiring over something or another.

Reaching into her drawer, Cecily removed a book of poetry. Setting it in her lap, the pages fluttered open, revealing a pressed flower. The ribbon trailed down the page, and Cecily's lips silently pledged the words of the poem. "Heart, we will forget him. You and I, tonight! You will forget the warmth he gave; I will forget the light. When you are done, pray, tell me, that I may straight begin. Haste! Lest while you're lacking, I may remember him."

Removing the rose and black ribbon from the book, she bit her lip before opening the passage and placing it inside. "Goodbye Erik. I lost you a long time ago, but now I'm giving you up." She swallowed her tears before locking the hidden door, extinguishing her candle and showing her face to the world. Showing herself to Nicholai.


	61. Paper Faces

The masquerade had already begun as Cecily decended the stairs. Several hours spent between the ballet dormitories and the kitchen had passed, but the time had finally come. She scanned the crowd for Nicholai, but he hadn't yet arrived. Smiling at several acquaintances, she moved through the crowd. A dance was in progress, a simple one, and Cecily joined the line of women waiting to be spun down the center. Laughter was king for them, and they were only too happy to be under his reign. The reel ended, and a waltz began. Cecily danced with one of the young nobles who had arrived early. He was arrayed in full military regalia, indicating him as a second or third son. His smile was gentle, as was his step.

The dance called for a change in partners, and Cecily spun blithely from young man to young man, glad for the knee brace she wore. As the dance ended, she looked at her final partner. His face was completely enshrouded by shadow from his cloak, but his hand lingered too long on her back. She could almost see a glimpse of white in the shadow as he pulled away…

"Cecily!" She turned, startled by the sound of her own name, and when she looked back her mysterious partner had gone. "Cecily!"

Running up to her, Nicholai kissed her soundly. "You look amazing. Arthur and his knights would be in awe of your beauty."

Pulling him close, she smiled. "But I don't care what those stupid old English horse-riders would think."

He tilted her chin up. "Do you care if I am in awe of your beauty?"

She pushed off him lightly and laughed. "Sometimes you are just so…" She ran her hand down his cheek. "Did you cut yourself shaving?"

Slightly flustered by the question, Nicholai regarded her suspiciously. "What?"

"You have a fresh cut here, and you never finished shaving. I just thought maybe you had…"

"Yes, I had forgotten. Earlier today. When I stopped it up I couldn't be bothered finishing the shave. Of course, it had to occur on my first stroke, mind you."

"Of course! It is better than having a half-shaven face, though."

Laughing lightly, he kissed her again, stopping suddenly when a rather drunken M. Andre slapped him between the shoulder blades. "Brilliant! What a splendid party!"

"Isn't it though?" muttered Nicholai, rubbing his back soothingly while Cecily suppressed a giggle.

"I do believe it is the prologue to a bright new year! Wouldn't you say so, my dear? The books do have a bit of an sign about them, don't they?" M. Firmin was obviously nearly as drunk as his companion.

"Yes…"

"What a night! I'm impressed! It's all turned out quite nicely, hasn't it?" M. Andre may have been talking to the crowd, but his attentions were absorbed by a young woman who Cecily was quite sure was not Mme. Andre.

"One does one's best, sir," Cecily said, leaning slightly into Nicholai's arms.

"Here's to us!" Another young woman, apparently M. Firmin's arm candy for the evening, returned with several drinks, which she and the server behind her proceeded to distribute.

"To a prosperous year!" added Andre.

"To the opera house!" threw in Nicholai. The small group drank the champagne and set the glasses back on the server's tray.

"I must say, all the same, that it is a shame that Phantom fellow isn't here! He did certainly add a certain flair." Firmin already was clutching another drink in his hand. Cecily was sure it was not only his second drink; he had to be quite out of it to speak that kindly of the Opera Ghost.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cecily caught the arrival of Christine and Raoul. Surprisingly, Philippe followed, along with his friends. He caught her eye and smiled rogueishly, but she only shook her head and waved slightly, making sure to emphasize the ring on her middle-finger. Feigning heartbrokenness, Philippe gave her another smile before disappearing into the crowd. He was quite the character, that one.

"See someone you know, my dear?" The managers and their entourage had moved away, leaving Nicholai and Cecily relatively separated.

"Just a friend. You needn't worry so." She leaned her body back against his, content to just regard the party-goers and their costumes for awhile. In the background, a small chorus sang a tune composed just for the masquerade.

"Cecily! Nicholai! Come on! We've got a toast going over here, and you need glasses!" It was Meg, who was, perhaps a bit unsurprisingly, being watched protectively by Daniel, one of the men from the dinner party. Handing both Cecily and Nicholai a glass, Meg took one for herself.

"To the new season!" Andre called. His flushed face testified that he had obviously had several more glasses since he had left Cecily.

"Aye!" The rest of the group took a drink.

"What a night!" sighed Mme. Giry, slyly regarding her daughter and the young Daniel.

"What a crowd!" chirped Meg.

"All the crème de la crème…" observed Andre.

"It seems all our fears are in the past," breathed Cecily, making Nicholai look down at her strangely.

"Six months!" cried Piangi, never one to stay quiet long. "Six months of relief!"

"No! Of delight!" Carlotta laughed and tipped back the rest of her glass.

"Of Elysian peace!" Andre's words were slurred, but understandable.

"Perhaps we can breathe at last, my dear," murmured Mme. Giry so only Cecily could hear.

"To the masquerade!" The group clinked glasses. It was truly a night to celebrate.

The song changed to a quickstep, and Nicholai bowed slightly to Cecily. "May I have this dance, my lady?"

Curtsying, Cecily gave him her hand to be led out to the dance floor. The dance again called for several partner changes, and Cecily found herself dancing with several eligible young men. She amused herself with guessing at who their original partners were. Raoul with Christine, Daniel with Meg, Philippe with whichever girl had caught his eye that night. She guessed too, who the strangers were. A nobleman who had already engaged in too much wine, a wealthy businessman, a soldier-boy who was anxious to prove himself, and…

The man in a dark hooded cloak whose hands lingered just a moment too long, whose steps were too familiar, whose eyes burned in the darkness… "Erik?"

She had no sooner spoken the name than he spun her off to another partner. She followed the dance, but her mind was filled with other things. What was he doing here? Surely he had not come to see her? No, Christine was here. The dance ended, and she spun madly, trying to relocate him, but he had again disappeared.

Shaking her head, she moved toward the door to get some fresh air. She must be going mad, thinking that Erik would come to such a public event. And there was an unmasking at the end for those who remained masked! What foolishness she had been thinking!

"Why so silent, good messieurs?" The voice struck at Cecily almost physically, and she sucked in a breath. Her foolishness was true! "Did you think that I had left you for good?" He laughed the cold laugh that she had first heard him use. "Have you missed me?" He marched down the stairs, a brilliant crimson costume with a death's mask his choice of attire.

"Dear God, Erik, what are you doing?" Cecily muttered to herself, rushing through the crowd.

"I have written you an opera! Here I bring the finished score - _"Don Juan Triumphant" !_" Pulling a giant dossier from under his cloak, he threw it to the floor in front of the now extremely drunk Andre and a stunned Firmin. "I advise you to comply -my instructions should be clear." His gaze focused on Nicholai, and his eyes narrowed.

Pushing her way through the last of the crowd, she moved in front of Nicholai, holding his hand tightly with her own, the ring flashing brightly in the chandelier-light. The reflected light seemed to burn him and he turned away. Relieved, Cecily let Nicholai wrap her in his arms, but her spirit was not at all eased.

In horror, she watched as Christine advanced slowly toward him. He reached out a hand as if to touch her face, but recoiled, grabbing at her neck instead. Cecily started forward, but Nicholai held her back. She pulled again, freeing herself this time. Christine stood shocked at the bottom of the stairs, her hand at her bare neck where her ring had lain only moments before, gaping at a hole in the main landing where the Phantom had just disappeared. Before she could stop him, Raoul jumped in as it closed, disappearing into darkness.

"Raoul!" shrieked Christined, rushing up the stairs and staring blankly at the tiles.

Cecily grabbed the near-hysterical girl by her shoulders. "Christine, get ahold of yourself!" Mme. Giry's form moving toward a passage reassured her slightly about Raoul's fate, and she concentrated on Christine. "Miss Daae! Honestly! Christine!" She calmed slightly, her breaths still coming in short gasps.

Philippe moved forward, pulling Christine into his arms. "Come on then, my girl, it will be all right." He whispered soothingly, moving her off toward the door. He nodded thankfully at Cecily, who returned the gesture, a look of worry etched on her face.

Nicholai ran up the stairs, grabbing her arm. "We should go," he said.

She shook her head fervently. "No! I have to stay here! But you must leave! It's not safe for you here, not now!"

"I won't leave you! There is more here than you're telling me. I won't lose my wife before I marry her!"

Smiling sadly at him, she kissed him quickly. "If you stay, I'm more worried about you. Please, just go. Trust me."

He nodded, moving toward the door. She followed him to the cool night air. Nicholai moved off into the night, looking back at her several times before disappearing into a carriage.

"No! I will stay here!" Turning, she saw Meg and Philippe pleading with Christine.

"It's simply not safe, my dear! You must come back with me!" Philippe had wrapped his jacket around the shivering girl, but Christine's mind was set.

"I will not leave the opera house without knowing he is safe!"

Neither Meg nor Philippe had anything to say to that. Philippe gave her a desperate look. "She can stay in my room." Philippe's eyes went large, and he opened his mouth to say something, but she held up her hand to silence him. "If she insists on staying, it is the only place I can guarantee her safety."

He eyed her carefully. "How can you be so sure of the safety of your room?"

Gathering an exhausted Christine and Meg into each arm, she met his gaze. "I swear to you, no harm will come to any of us." Something in her tone made him believe her, and he nodded, walking away to another part of the opera. "Quickly now, girls. The faster we're there, the faster it's over with." The three scurried through the corridors, arriving in Cecily's room. She helped them strip off their costumes and slip into two old nightgowns Cecily had kept from long ago. Tucking them into bed, she whispered, "Get some sleep now, for I fear we'll have need of it."

She changed herself into a work dress and sat herself down at her desk to write. It was the only way she could think of to keep herself awake.

---

Several hours later, a soft knock at the door woke her. Cursing herself for having fallen asleep, she checked to make sure the girls were all right. The two lay in the bed, the very picture of innocence. Sighing with relief, she cracked open the door. It was Mme. Giry.

Admitting her quietly, Cecily locked the door again. "The boy is alive. But foolish." She let out a trapped breath. "He asks too many questions for his own good." She shook her head. "This frightens me, Cecily."

"I know what you mean. I never expected him to actually…I suppose we must await tomorrow." Looking at the sleeping girls, she bit her lip in indecision. "Will you stay with them for awhile? I have to see to some things."

"Of course. You were always too curious for your own good, too."

Andre and Firmin had just left the office when she arrived. On the desk lay the unopened folder containing the apparently finished "_Don Juan Triumphant._" Turning back the cover, she scanned the cast list that took up the entire first page. He certainly was thorough; every part was specified, nothing was left to chance. The next page yielded the copy for the primaries: Piangi as first tenor, Farithe as second tenor, Carlotta as seconda donna. That would certainly ruffle the diva's feathers. And the prima donna was to be Christine specified explicitly in writing and in person at the Phantom's little 'presentation'.

After the primaries, detailed choregraphy, chorus pieces, and orchestrations followed. The expected performance notes addressed to Andre and Firmin, and then…

A copy in blood red ink, the same ink she had seen him write in for so long. It was eerie when he had lines of it on his pale skin; it had always bothered her, and she had several dresses that had been defined indefinitely as work dresses after she had used them to wipe away the ink from his hand or face. The possession tag had originally been only 'Cecily', but 'Mlle' had been added before, and 'Pencombe' after. Notes covered the first page, and Cecily knew then that she held the original copy. Her fingers traced the edge of the papers, but she could not bring herself to open it.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered, turning away to prevent her tears falling on the manuscript. "I don't care anymore! I have to talk to you! I have to!"

Rising from her desk, she grabbed her cane and prodded at the wall with it. A slab of stone moved on its touch, and Cecily pushed harder. "I have to talk to him," she muttered to herself as she began the descent.

---

Sliding as silently as she could from the passage, Cecily peeked out the bedchamber. He was hunched over his desk, apparently sketching. "Erik," her voice cracked, so she tried again. "Erik?"

He whipped around, his eyes burning dangerously. She sniffed back more tears, and he seemed to relax a bit. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to…" her voice trailed off. What had she come to do? "What are you drawing?"

Moving quickly, he closed the desk, hiding the papers. "It's of no concern. I see things are going well enough with that Russian prat." His voice was spiked with bitterness, but Cecily chose to ignore it. "The ring looks expensive."

"I suppose it could have been, I don't know." She looked at her own hand for a moment, then up at the organ, where Christine's ring, complete with chain, still lay. "What are you planning on doing with that?"

Following her gaze, he slouched physically when he saw it. "I'm not the fiend you think I am."

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "I never thought that Erik was a fiend. It is only the Phantom that scares me."

He stiffened slightly. "Go," he hissed.

"What? Erik, I didn't mean…"

"Go!" he cried loudly, forcing her to flee from his lair. Assured that she was gone, he sat heavily on the stairs. "Oh, Christine, Christine!" he moaned. "Why can you not love me?" Picking up the ring from the organ, his face darkened. "You will love me. Fear will turn to love. It must be so." Stomping over to his model of Christine, he kicked aside some charred paper at its entrance and placed the ring on its finger. "She will be mine."


	62. Never Again

Cecily groaned quietly, attempting to will her headache into submission. It wasn't working. Late hours of crying did not bode well for the following day, and with all the fuss over Erik's opera, it was cause enough to want to go back to bed. But then Raoul had engineered his genius plan. Despite Mme. Giry's warnings, it seemed that the managers thought it was the best way to go about things. Her stomach was knotted. They were going to kill Erik if he came. And they all knew he would come. Christine's voice would draw him like a bee to nectar.

"Are you all right, love?" Nicholai stood in the doorway, watching her with concern.

She smiled and kissed his cheek. "Fine, just a bit of pain in the head from all the stress." Noting his doubting glance, she waved him off. "Really, I am. I just need some rest."

"You be sure to get it. I have to go; the Count has some business he needs me for. You're sure you're all right, though?"

"Yes! Now scat before I have to push you out myself."

"Fine, fine, I'm going." He kissed her; he still hadn't shaved.

Turning back to her work, she sighed. What a complicated life it was! And whatever to do about Erik…

"Mademoiselle?" She turned toward the voice. A young police inspector who had failed to knock was standing in her open doorway, regarding her uneasily.

"Come in, Inspector. And feel free to bring your partner with you." He entered, looking warily around the room as if something were about to jump out and bite him. "Can I help you with something?"

"You are Mlle Cecily Pencombe?"

"Yes."

"I am Inspector Larite, but of course, you already knew that I was an inspector didn't you?"

The tone of his voice was not one of amazement at her varied intelligences. Rather, it was a pointed jibe at the fact that she had an above average knowledge of the gendarmerie. Cecily straightened in her chair. She had no desire to play games with a silly, self-important police brute. "I can see that you are familiar with my past. But can you inform me as to why you are intruding on my present?" She stood up and began to arrange paperwork into various files.

The yet-un-introduced partner closed the door, peeking outside to make sure no one else was within hearing range. "We are here regarding a murder."

Cecily's spine stiffened. If they were going to harass her about that lowlife wretch… She forced a bitter, but polite, smile. "Oh? Of whom?"

Larite moved closer, his stooge following suit. "We are familiar with your record, Mademoiselle."

"Yes, we've already clarified that," she said curtly. "Now, would you be so kind as to answer my question?"

"This morning we discovered a body. Fortunately, the deceased was carrying work papers, so we were able to identify the corpse." He looked like a cat waiting to pounce. "The deceased was positively identified by her employer as Sophie Pencombe."

Cecily swallowed hard and her breathing went shallow. Surely this was some kind of cruel joke? Clutching a chair, she braced herself against it. "Wha," her voice cracked, and she coughed a little to clear her throat. "What did you say?"

The inspector grinned horribly. "A Mlle Sophie Pencombe was discovered near the Rue Morgue in the early hours of the morning. A rather odd place for a young lady of good community standing to be. She was strangled by a small cord, which is not at the scene. Presumably the killer," he emphasized the word and stared harshly at Cecily, "took it with them."

Cecily's eyes went blank, and she collapsed into the chair. "Oh my god. Sophie. I just…She's not dead. She can't be. She just got a new job and things were looking up and oh my god!" Tears came, but she was too distraught to care, and they flowed unchecked down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry for this _shock_, mademoiselle, but we must ask you, as next of kin, a few questions." Opening a box, he proceeded to stuff his pipe.

"Monsieur," she muttered, "I would rather prefer if you didn't smoke in this office." She felt hard and empty, a shell. "What questions?"

"Let us start with the basics. Did your sister have any enemies?"

"No, none that I can think of…" Questions! Horrible suggestion after horrible suggestion poured from that worm of an Inspector's mouth, each trying to incriminate Cecily.

"And finally, and this is _only for reference_, Mademoiselle, what were you doing between the hours of ten o'clock last night and five o'clock this morning?"

"I was at the masquerade." It was an automated response. She was too shocked to formulate anything extensive.

"Ah, yes, but it seems that the Opera's masquerade was interrupted rather…rudely…around one o'clock in the morning. After that, you did what?"

Closing her eyes, Cecily tried to distance herself from her emptiness, if only for a moment. "I took Meg Giry and Christine Daae to my room to sleep."

"But you didn't sleep, did you?"

"No," she murmured. She was so cold. "I was with…" Her mind suddenly snapped into gear. She had gone to see Erik, but certainly she couldn't tell the police she had gone to visit the Opera Ghost.

"You were with?" pried Larite.

"With Mme. Giry." Surely the woman would be able to understand that she needed her help. If not, oh God, if not…

"She will be able to verify this?"

Cecily gave a shuddering breath. "Yes."

"Very good. Couchon, bring this Mme. Giry in here. I do believe that she is the ballet instructor."

For several minutes, Cecily stared into her lap, doing her best to empty her mind completely. She couldn't bear to think of poor dear Sophie. Who had done this? The police obviously thought she had, but who had truly committed the crime?

"Ah, Mme Giry. We have been told that you were with Mlle Cecily Pencombe last night during the period lasting from the disruption of the Masquerade until five o'clock this morning. Is this true?"

Mme Giry was never one to be taken blindly. Upon entering the room, she had observed two uniformed police officers alone in an office with a crying Cecily. Cecily never cried without reason. And after the masquerade, she had been with Cecily, but the girl had disappeared for awhile in early morning. Upon returning, she had been crying also, but she had not been so empty. Rather, she had looked turmoiled, as if she had some choice to make. With startling force, Mme Giry realized where Cecily had gone, and why she had told the police that she was with her. "Of course I was. We were all in Cecily's room for most of the time. Once or twice we each slipped out to fetch water or such things, but only for a period of several minutes at a time. Why do you ask?"

"Madame, you said 'all of us.' Who else was in the room?"

Annoyed, Giry shook her head. "Why, my daughter Meg Giry and her friend Christine Daae. The two young girls were sleeping early on, but Cecily and I remained awake until well into the night."

Nodding at Couchon, who departed to get the two girls, Larite spoke, his voice smooth. "And why were all of you in one chamber? You have your own quarters, I presume, as Ballet Mistress, and the girls presumably also have bunks in the dormitories."

"Indeed, but it is best to remain together and alert when the Opera Ghost is displeased."

"The Opera Ghost, Madame? Surely you do not believe such things!"

She fixed him with a glare that Cecily was sure Giry had learned directly from Erik. "Do not mock the Opera Ghost or myself, Monsieur. There are many people who saw the Ghost last night, and it would have frightened any of us. Even you, as brave as you may be, would grow weak-kneed after seeing his work." Certainly, it seemed all it took to make Inspector Larite grow weak-kneed was the sight of an agitated Mme. Giry. It was a rather intimidating sight to the most courageous of men.

"Yes, yes, of course," he sputtered. "Ah, Couchon, brilliant timing!" He coughed, trying to settle his voice into its proper baritone rather than the agitated soprano it was drifting into. "Now, I have a question for the two of you," he spoke slowly, as if to a small child. "I want you to think carefully before answering. The truth is very important."

Meg sighed, affronted. "Monsieur, are you going to give us a schoolgirls' lecture, or do you intend to actually ask the question at some point this afternoon?" Cecily smiled a ghost of a smile; Meg had obviously inherited her mother's sharp tongue.

"Yes, well," he blustered. This interrogation was not going at all the way he had pictured it. "Were you with Mlle Pencombe last night after the masquerade?"

Meg looked as if she was about to laugh. "Cecily? Of course! We stayed the night in her room."

"And was she there the entire time?"

Christine looked at Mme. Giry and Cecily. Both wore a look of knowing worry. "Of course. I did slip off to sleep, but every time I woke, the four of us were all there." Her soft voice was juvenile, but convincing to the incredulous inspector.

"Ah, well then, thank you, girls. You may return to whatever it was you were doing." He waved a hand, dismissing them. Walking quietly from the room, Christine wondered what all of it was about, and why Cecily had needed their corroboration on a lie. True enough, they had stayed the night in Cecily's room, but Cecily had been conspicuously absent for a period in the early morning. Still, she trusted Cecily and Mme Giry.

"I suppose that takes care of things, then." He looked rather proud of himself, though for what, Cecily was unsure.

"Yes," she stated angrily, "it nearly does."

"Nearly?" Larite was confused.

"Yes, nearly. As Mlle Pencombe's next of kin, I have an express order on the treatment of this case."

"Mademoiselle, it is an ongoing investigation…"

"Don't lie. Your first hunch fell through, and she was not a high-profile victim, so in all likelihood, you will leave things as they lay. But in future discussion of this case, with _anyone_, you will _never again_ use my sister's proper name. Mlle Pencombe will suffice. If I find out that anyone else knows of the death of a Sophie Pencombe, and trust me, I will find out, there will be severe repercussions on your career, Inspector. Do we understand each other?" She was donning a blanket of power, the same as Erik did when he became the Phantom, and it was working brilliantly.

"I understand," Larite squeaked.

Opening the door to the office, the inspector seemed to regain some of his gusto. "I am sorry for taking all this time, Mademoiselle," he said loudly. "It was simply that, with such a close relative as a sister having a record and such…It seemed like a closed case to come to the opera house and find _Mlle Pencombe's_ sister, who was already a confirmed murderer…Ah well, again, I'm sorry for your time." He promptly closed the door behind him, leaving only enough time to see several gaping chorus members staring at her.

Cecily raged. He had done that purposefully! Intentionally calling out the fact that she had spent time in prison for murder so that all the Opera could hear it! The wretched fiend! And treating Sophie as if she was a prize in his belt! She should simply…

Nothing. She could do nothing. Disheartened, she sank into her chair. The entire opera house would know in a matter of minutes, and everyone from Firmin to Meg would know where Cecily had come from. And oh! When Nicholai came back to the opera house, they would tell him! She suddenly felt very sick.

"Oh, sister!" Just as she had instructed the police to never use her Christian name, neither would she again, not for a long time. "Why is this happening to us? Who has done this? Oh sister."


	63. A Past to Forget

Early the next morning, Cecily heard a soft knock at her door. As much as she wanted to ignore the world and stay wrapped up in the comforting warmth of her blankets, she rolled out of bed and padded over to the door. There stood Mme Giry, a tray with two cups and all the makings for tea. Without a word, Cecily let her in.

Mme Giry went silently about the process of getting the tea ready. For Cecily, it was simple; she took her tea clear and strong. Sipping the steaming brew, Cecily bit back a new flow of tears. "Thank you."

Mme Giry smiled comfortingly and sipped from her own cup. "Everyone in this opera house has a past they want everyone to forget, including themselves. And no one can look down on tears shed in the face of one's greatest fear."

Cecily shook her head, unable to do anymore but cry. For a while the two women sat silently, waiting for Cecily's tears to subside. "Why did you cover for me yesterday?"

Giry smiled warmly. "Those of us with secrets like ours must stick together, my dear. It wouldn't do to leave you to fend for yourself."

"Like she had to…" Giry knew of whom Cecily spoke, and remained quiet for a moment while she grieved.

Another knock on the door was her signal to leave. "Should you need anything, my dear, do not hesitate."

Cecily made an effort at a smile, hugging Giry warmly. "Thank you. Thank you so much for everything."

Opening the door, Giry slipped out as Nicholai rushed in. He stopped suddenly, rolling his hat between his hands. "I take it you've heard then," she whispered fearfully.

A look of concern crossed his face, and he knelt down beside her. "Heard what? Are you all right?"

She didn't believe that he could have walked through the opera house without someone telling him all the wretched happenings of the day before, but he looked so completely unaware. "You haven't heard?"

He clutched her shaking hands in hers. "Apparently not, but what's wrong?"

"My sister is dead." She stated it plainly and without emotion, staring through him rather than at him.

His breath hitched. "What?"

"Someone killed her," she said, her voice gaining anger as she spoke. "Someone murdered my sister two nights ago!"

Nicholai wasted no time in wrapping the now-weeping Cecily in his arms and holding her tightly. He swallowed tightly and pulled her even closer. "Oh dear God, your sister," he breathed. "I didn't think…"

Pulling back she nodded. "Yes, I have a sister," she shook her head. "Had a sister. I had only just seen her for the first time in years, but I loved her so much." She bit her lip and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress. "Nicholai, there's something else you should know," she said, sitting softly on the bed. He noticed the look of pain on her face and sat next to her. "Something I want to tell you before anyone else does…"


	64. Man, Monster, Murderer

The next week passed for Cecily as an exhausting blur of rehearsals and adjustments. The scheduled production of Rigoletto was still going on stage for the weekend, in addition to the rehearsals for Don Juan. Even after Rigoletto finished, Don Juan rehearsals were going horribly. No one could seem to get the melodies quite right. Christine was doing well enough, but that was to be expected. After all, the composer had been her vocal instructor.

There was no customary day of rest after a performance well-done, and rehearsals started fairly early. The entire staff was beyond fatigued, but they worked on, more out of fear of another of the Phantom's "accidents" than out of any true regard for the show. Sitting in the front row and watching rehearsal, Cecily flinched nearly every time she was forced to watch Christine and Piangi attempt to sing "Past the Point of No Return." Piangi never could get the notes right, and his pronunciation was atrocious. Not to mention his pawing around with Christine. It was supposed to be seductive, not repulsive. She felt bad for the young Christine, who was doing her best to maintain composure at the same time as she was helping Piangi along.

Cecily let her mind wander, remembering the time when Erik had written the song. It had all been so different then, so much happier. But even then, Erik was already on his path to obsession with Christine. It just hadn't been so apparent.

The days passed much the same for the next week. A desperate M. Reyer attempted to get all of the chorus members to sing their parts correctly, a feat in itself, as well as organizing the orchestra after Erik's notes regarding the status of bassoon and trombone players. The players strutted across the stage, filling in where they thought necessary only to be corrected due to Erik's extensive choreography instructions. Half-finished costumes turned out to be the full thing, and the lack of fabric astounded even Cecily at times. She put her foot down when it came to Meg's costume, though. The few scraps of fabric would do almost nothing. "Tell the Phantom it's my fault if he'll be so upset," she told the nervous costumers, who did as they were told. Erik never said a word.

"Mademoiselle! The Phantom is not going to jump down out of the rafters to snatch you away, I can quite assure you! Perform the dance, and not the jerking movements you are currently occupied with!" The poor dancer who had gotten the end of Cecily's nervous wrath glanced anxiously at the ceiling, but did her best to loosen up her movements.

"You certainly need to get out of the opera house, my dear," whispered Nicholai into her ear, startling her.

"Yes, but that is certainly nothing new. But of course, with this bloody opera we've got to perform, everyone's going haywire, even me."

He rubbed her shoulders lightly. "I can't do much for the others, but you're coming with me."

"When?" she demanded lazily, relaxing into his hands.

"Now. We're going to an art exhibition. A friend of the Count's is hosting of few of the "Impressionist" painters. You know, Pissarro, Guillaumin, Morisot, Degas, although you probably already know him."

She scrunched her face, a signal to those who knew her that she was thinking. "Yes, yes, Edgar Degas. Comes by to paint the girls a lot, but I hear his works of the rest of the opera are workable."

"Incredible from what I've heard. So go get ready! Go on now!" He pushed her a bit up out of her chair. "I'll be waiting for you when you're done."

Smiling, she used her cane to push open the door. He had perfect timing that one. A night of an art other than opera would be most beneficial.

---

"Amazing! The one painting simply made me feel like flying!" Cecily spun in a small circle, but lost her balance and tumbled into Nicholai, laughing hysterically.

"My dear, I think you may have had a little much of the champagne at the Countess's apartment. You had better be off to bed…"

"I'll take it myself from here, thank you, monsieur," she said seriously. "Don't want a repeat of the last time you escorted me to my room!"

Kissing her, he smiled wickedly, "You could let me in then."

It took all of her willpower to push him away. "Or I could bid you a goodnight here and walk myself to my room."

"But you wouldn't want to do that…" He kissed her again, making her resolve slip a little.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs made her pull away. "Go! Before I hate you tomorrow morning."

"Not possible," he murmured.

"It will be if you don't leave this instant." Her voice was deadly serious, and he assented, disappearing into the shadows by the door into the early morning light.

Sighing, Cecily made to return to her own room. She rounded the corner and saw a man carrying a young woman, and, not wanting to butt into business that she wanted nothing to do with, began to turn away. It was only then that her slightly drunken brain realized that it was Raoul and a crying Christine. She rushed over. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"Nothing," muttered Raoul tersely.

"No," came Christine's breaking voice. "No, Raoul, she needs to know. And for the last time, put me down!" Once on her feet, Christine began. "Today is the anniversary of my father's death, so I went to his grave, like I always do on this day. I wanted to be alone, and I knew Raoul would insist on going with me, so I slipped out alone." She looked guiltily at Raoul, who was obviously incredibly upset about the whole matter.

"And? What happened? How did he find you?"

"_He_ was there. One moment I was alone, and then he was singing, and that voice, it could only belong to an angel, I thought my father…" her voice cracked.

"You know that that monster is not your father," admonished Raoul.

"Yes, I do, Raoul! Thank you for reminding me!" Her eyes hinted at spending too much time with Erik, and Cecily was surprised that even such an innocent girl could take on such bottled fury. "Raoul came, thankfully," she spat. "And then, then there was a fight."

"She wouldn't let me kill him, end this forever." Raoul leaned heavily against the wall, the anger blocking his throat.

Cecily looked at Christine, half-grateful, half-disbelievingly angry. "You would rather see him shot during his own opera? A more fitting tribute?" Christine opened her mouth mutely, gaping at her. "Never thought of that. I admit, it is more than I would want as a choice," she consoled lightly, touching Christine's face comfortingly.

"A choice? The man is a monster! A murderer!"

"And so? A murderer is still a man. Whose choice is it but God's who lives and who dies?"

"And the men whose lives were taken?" Raoul was livid, raised to his full height in front of Cecily.

Cecily met his fiery gaze with one of ice. "Do not speak to me about the evils of murder and death when you are so ready to deal the same out. You were ready to destroy a man at the end of your sword not a few hours ago. You would have been a murderer."

"I would have been justified!"

"And he was not, you are sure?"

"What had Buquet done? Other than be in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

Cecily closed her eyes. Oh God, Buquet. The second murder she was responsible for, although she had not committed it with her own hands. She opened them and leveled her glare on Raoul. "I can assure you, Raoul, that Buquet was no innocent. Was my killing justified, or am I another monster? If you think I had cause to kill that wretch who should have been my father, then the death of Joseph Buquet was justified. Do you understand yet? Or do you still think that you have a God-given right to destroy those you think are in the wrong?"

Raoul stared, the rage dropping from his look. "I, I never thought…"

"No you didn't. I will not speak one way or the other any longer. So there was a fight, you were victorious, and the Phantom is not dead."

"He is wounded," piped in a frightened Christine. "Raoul slashed his arm rather badly at the end of the fight I think."

Cecily bowed her head. "Congratulations. I do believe that the two of you should get some rest before the day truly begins. We have work to do."

She didn't wait for them to leave, but slipped into her room and locked the door. Opening the door to the passage, she moved swiftly through the packages, using her cane to feel her way in the absence of a candle. Sliding down into the lair, she searched quietly for him. She found him in a room empty except for a coffin, in which he slept. She shuddered at the creepiness of it, but brought herself to move closer on seeing the blood on his arm.

"Erik," she called softly from a safe distance. Even wounded, she knew Erik could be dangerous. "Erik, it's Cecily."

"What are you doing here? Go away!"

She stepped closer, helping him to sit up. He moved as she urged, despite his displeasure with her presence. She triaged the wound quickly. Not too deep, just enough to lose some blood. "Sit up straight, please," she chided. "You know how slouching is horrible for the voice. Besides I need to remove the shirt." She didn't wait for his permission, and began to peel it away.

"No! You foolish woman, leave!" She sat back on her heels, looking him in the eye. It was only then that she noticed his mask was crooked. He seemed to also, and clutched at it, putting it back into place. He blessed his earlier exhaustion, for it had caused him to simply fall into the coffin rather than take the time to remove his mask. At least she hadn't seen that.

"I'm not leaving, Erik. Not until I've fixed up that arm of yours."

"How did you find out about it?"

"I saw Raoul. Now, up!" She took advantage of his momentary lapse at the mention of Raoul to lift his shirt up. He hissed and sank back down into the coffin.

"I told you to leave!"

"And I told you I wasn't going to! Now sit up before I have to drag you into sitting position!"

"Cecily…" Too late. She had already taken hold of his shoulder blade and meant to push him up. Her finger ran over one bump, and then another. Erik drew a sharp breath. "I told you not to," he whispered, defeated.

Terrible realization dawned on her. "Oh, Erik…" She traced a finger down the line from his shoulder blade to the small of his back. "Who did this to you?"

He shook his head. "They're too horrible. I'm too horrible." She squeezed his good shoulder to stop him, then moved in front of him and began to undo the top of her dress. "What are you doing?"

She turned away from him and let the back of her dress fall open, gasping as the cold air hit her. Erik stared. In every direction on her back ran the same sort of lines that covered Erik's own skin. He reached out a hand, but withdrew it. "Who…?" He couldn't finish the question.

"In prison," was all she said before closing up her dress. "There. Now will you let me take care of that arm?"

Erik let her go about her work, silent as he contemplated what he had just seen. She was just putting the last layer of bandage around his arm when he spoke. "Why do you always come back?" She didn't speak, just continued wrapping. "I was sorry to hear about your sister." She flashed a bitter smile, but didn't respond. "I wished there was something I could have done."

She nodded, her jaw clenched tight. "Yes, I'm sure you did. It's a kind gesture, after all. Although I am surprised you had enough time to hear about my little problem, what with all the planning you must be doing for Don Juan. And Christine. Barely enough time to listen in on other peoples problems, much less care about them. I am honored." Her voice was laced with pain and bitterness, and it lanced out at Erik.

"Of course I am more concerned with Christine, she has never lashed out!"

"Of course not! She can barely think for herself without considering what Erik or Raoul will think of it!" She tied the last knot of the bandage a little too tightly, making him gasp. Leaving all but her cane, she hurried into the passage and closed the door. He didn't even try to follow.


	65. Nothing Left

It had come. The day everyone in the opera house was both impatient for and dreading. Curtain was at eight o'clock. Enough time for one last rehearsal, some last-minute changes to costume, and the final nails in the set. Cecily sat on the edge of the stage in a chair, watching both the cast and orchestra carefully. It was early. The sun hadn't truly risen above the Paris skyline, and the lamps were burning brightly. The music had finally come together, and the chorus didn't sound like a group of alley cats any longer. It was the end of the nightmare, except for the final moment, and everyone knew it.

Nicholai seemingly appeared out of nowhere to kneel by Cecily's side. "I have to talk to you." There was no laughter in his voice like normal, and Cecily wondered why.

"All right." She followed him into the shadows behind the curtain. "The Count needs me to return to Russia."

The air rushed out of Cecily. "What? Why?"

Nicholai shook his head. "Business, as always."

"When?" She pulled him closer to her, not wanting to believe what she was hearing.

"Next week."

She pushed back and stared at him. "Next week! That's too soon…" She wiped away a tear and bit her lip.

"I know, I know," he kissed her. "Here," he said reaching into his pocket. Frowning, he looked down into it. "Hmm…"

"What is it?"

"Well, I was going to offer you my handkerchief, but I seem to have misplaced it." He laughed and kissed her forehead. "I know it's soon, my dear, but I was rather hoping that you would come with me."

She stopped crying, shocked. "You want me? To go with you? To Russia? When would we come back?"

He looked away for a moment, into the shadows. "We wouldn't. But yes, I want you to come. We would be married there, if you'll come." He put a small band on her ring finger. "I know that you didn't expect it, so I'll give you some time. Just think about it." He placed another kiss on her lips before hurrying off.

Collapsing back into her chair, she moved the ring to the right hand. It felt strange on her left. "Hide our sword now wounded knight!" sang out the chorus. "Your vainglorious gasconade brought you to your final fight for your pride, high price you've paid!" Cecily just wondered which the wounded knight was in the real story.

---

6:45. In fifteen minutes, the doors would be opened for the opera. Every ticket was sold, and it seemed that everyone in Paris wanted to be able to claim to have seen the Phantom's opera. Firemen were posted at every exit, and Andre, Firmin, Raoul, and the fire chief was inspecting. Cecily was stationed stage right, Giry stage left. They were not a part of Raoul's plan, and Cecily hoped that Erik would not have come. Nicholai would not be coming; she had asked him not to.

Hearing a whistle, the doors slammed shut. Grimacing, she looked over at the fire chief. "Are the doors secured?" Similar words ring back from each possible exit. Cecily shook her head. The Phantom did not play by Raoul's rules. She had a feeling Erik was up to something particularly odd this night.

"I'm here: The Phantom of the Opera…" It came from the curtains below box 4. Firemen rushed over to it. When they had nearly reached it….

"I'm here: The Phantom of the Opera…" Again, the firemen followed the voice.

"I'm here!"

"No! I'm here!"

"Over here!" They darted from place to place, following the ghostly voice.

"I'm here: The Phantom of the Opera…" The voice sounded this time from inside Box 5, and a shot rang out.

"Idiot!" raged Raoul at the astounded marksman. I said only when the time comes!"

The marksman muttered something, but a loud voice interrupted him. "No "buts"! For once, Monsieur le Vicomte is right..." The voice was clearly the Phantom's, but it seemed to come from the marksman himself. The marksman's eyes widened and he began to shake. Cecily moved over to him and whispered in his ear to be calm, it was just a trick.

The Phantom's voice continued. "Seal my fate tonight – I hate to have to cut the fun short but the joke's wearing thin. Let the audience in. Let my opera begin!"

An eerie silence descended on the opera house. Then the doors opened. The audience filed in. The orchestra began. And _Don Juan Triumphant_ started.

---

It was nearing the end. The final scene had started. Meg dashed into the cover of curtains, having finished her miniscule part in this scene, and smiled tensely at Cecily, who returned it. Piangi appeared on stage, having finally mastered the melody. The two men exited, and Christine entered. The entire staff held their breath, but it seemed nothing was going to happen. Christine sat down on the stage, and even now Cecily raised an eyebrow at the lack of material covering her. Erik was pushing it with that.

"Passarino - go away for the trap is set and waits for its prey!" Cecily's heart paused. It was a voice that possibly only she and Christine knew. The voice of a master at full effort. No one else would recognize that it was Erik. Surely Christine would cry out, do something! But no – the poor girl could only gape slightly open-mouthed as he approached, a high-collared cloak hiding away his face.

Erik sang, and even Cecily could feel it washing over her. The pure power of his voice was impossible to overcome. It was the voice that had so entrapped her and Erik while singing this very song that they had forgotten…He had forgotten she was not Christine…

The girl rose and followed the choreography as if born to do so. A step toward him here, a hesitation there, a change of expression- it was all perfect. "Past the point of no return, the final threshold - what warm, unspoken secrets will we learn? Beyond the point of no return…"

More and more people were realizing that it was not Piangi, but they were so enraptured by the voice….

"You have brought me to that moment where words run dry, to that moment where speech disappears into silence, silence…" Cecily mouthed the words along with Christine. What could she do?

She shook herself. If Erik was onstage, where was Piangi? She scurried over to the alcove where he was to wait and stifled a scream. It was all she could do to pull over a gendarme before fleeing to the backstage wall. "Erik!" she sobbed quietly. "Why did you do this? Damn it Erik!"

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime! Lead me, save me from my solitude!" Cecily whipped around, staring at the scene before her in utter horror. Christine was wrapped in Erik's arms in the middle of the bridge above the fire, languishing in his voice. He took hold of her hand and placed a ring on it. A ring that even Raoul recognized from Box 4 on the other side. "Say you want me with you, here beside you. Anywhere you go let me go too - Christine that's all I ask of…"

In what the newspapers would describe as bravery and Cecily would call utter foolishness, Christine calmly raised her hand to Erik's face, only to rip away the mask. Cecily screamed out against her, but it was too late. The audience screamed and yelled things such as, "Dear God, what is that thing? It's wretched! Where did it come from?" When she looked back at Christine, the two were gone, disappeared into one of the Phantom's contraptions.

She sprinted toward stage left, pushing aside several panicked chorus members. "Monsieur le Vicomte, I know where they are!" She heard Mme. Giry through the last of the crowd.

She stopped, trying to force herself to think despite the haze of panic and fear. "She will take him down, and he will try to kill Erik, but Erik cannot be beaten in his own lair… Meg!" She pulled the girl to her. "You must do something for me. You know the way, I know you do. The crowd will follow. Lead them down, but the wrong way!"

"What? Why the wrong way?"

Cecily shook her head and moved toward a passage door. "Buy time for all our lives."

As she unlocked the door, she heard the steam from the extinguished fire. "Perfect luck, that. Anywhere else and someone might have gotten hurt, even died." She knew full well it was not luck.

It was not her normal passage, and she arrived near the organ. The sound of the gate groaning in ascent could be heard through the wooden door, and Cecily peeped out. "Monsieur, I bid you welcome!  
Did you think that I would harm her? Why should I make her pay for the sins which are yours?" Cecily threw her hand over her mouth to silence a cry as Erik wrapped the Punjab lasso around Raoul's neck. He did not pull it tight, just enough to make it difficult to speak. What was he playing at?

Erik turned to Christine, and for the first time, his treasured Angel saw the full force of his raging eyes. "Start a new life with me! Buy his freedom with your love! Refuse me, and you send your lover to his death! This is your choice! This is the point of no return!"

Slipping out, Cecily began to work on loosing the knot that held the Punjab lasso aloft. If only the rope was not so thick! In the shadows, only Erik could have seen her, and he was focused on Christine.

All three seemed to be simultaneously speaking to the others and to themselves. Cecily caught snippets as she tried to work her finger between the strands of the knot.

"Farewell my fallen idol and false friend, one by one I've watched illusions shattered…"

"So, do you end your days with me, or do you send him to his grave?"

"Either way you choose, he has to win! Why make her lie to you to save me?"

"Too late for turning back! Too late for prayers and useless pity! Past all hope of cries for help: no point in fighting!"

"When will you see reason?"

"So, do you end your days with me, or do you send him to his grave?"

"For pity's sake, Christine, say no!"

"I gave my mind blindly!"

"I fought so hard to free you"

"You try my patience - make your choice!"

Cecily's fingers were bleeding from the effort of freeing the rope in the bitter cold, but it wouldn't budge. She looked up, able only to watch in dismay as Christine did the one mature thing that Cecily had ever seen her do.

She kissed Erik.

Cecily felt the kiss as a blow to her stomach, and the look of joy on Erik's face knocked her back against the wall, fighting away tears. She turned and fled back to the passage, forgetting her cane on the ground.

Erik had never felt such joy as the feel of Christine's lips on his… A sound from the corner made him pull back. Cecily's cane lay there, but no sign of its owner. He gasped. Oh God! What had he done? He pushed Christine back, catching her only before she tumbled into the lake water. "Take her - forget me - forget all of this! Leave me alone in my misery! Forget all you've seen!" He raised a candle to the thread that held the Punjab lasso, burning it. The noose fell uselessly at Raoul's feet. "Go now! Don't let them find you!" He retreated to the stairs. "Take the boat! Leave me here go now, don't wait! Just take her and go!" He leaned against the doorframe and looked back one last time. "Go!"

Collapsing onto the steps, out of view of Christine and Raoul, Erik started up a small music box. "Masquerade, paper faces on parade," he whispered to the tune. A step on the stairs startled him. Christine looked down at him, pity etched into every perfect line of her face. She laid the ring on the step next to him. "Christine, I love you." He cast his eyes down, unwilling to let her see the hope that her return had caused.

"I'm sorry," he thought he heard her mutter as she returned to Raoul. Erik listened as they left, leaving everything but the ring on and Cecily's cane. Two blows from the cane were all it took to break the mirror passage open. Giving one last look at his lair, he disappeared into the darkness and lowered the curtain over his escape.

Four stories above, Cecily was suppressing a sob. She was crouched in the tunnel, tears flowing down her face. A sliver of light from a crack in the stone reflected harshly off her right hand. Biting her lip, Cecily moved the small diamond from her right hand and placed it firmly on her right left, right next to Nicholai's promise ring. "There is nothing left in France."


	66. The Game is Up

"On arrive à Bruxelles! Bruxelles, Mesdames et Messieurs! Bruxelles!" The notoriously rainy Belgian weather was trying to live up to its reputation, but it seemed that the clouds couldn't even get together a good showing. It sputtered and spat between spurts of sunshine, and Cecily could hear the wind whistling around the train car. It was early morning, and Nicholai was still sleeping on his bunk.

She looked down at the piece of paper in her hand. It had been given to her just as Nicholai had arrived to get her. It was the most recent report regarding her sister's case. Unfortunately, there was no mention of a breakthrough. Nothing spectacular had been found, and as of yet they could not divulge case information.

She felt Nicholai's hand on her shoulder and she rested her own on top of it. "You need to leave memories of Sophie in Paris. You can't be breaking into tears each time you pass a millenary."

She smiled sadly and shook her head, wiping away the collecting tears. "No, I'm fine. Really, I am. Go back to sleep." He squeezed her shoulder comfortingly and climbed back into his bunk. In a few moments, his heavy breathing let her know he dreamt again. She let her mind drift away. To anything and everything other than the letter in her hand. She thought of the day that Linnea had brought her the package from Erik, the second one. It had been a splendid day. The actual only day she had held the role as prima mezzo-soprano. It had been a beautiful day, except for all the wretched Italian words she couldn't pronounce. And the night before…

She shook her head, she wouldn't think of Erik or his music. Of him teaching her to sing, and her teaching him to dance. Of writing for Don Juan years later. Of kissing him…

No, she wouldn't think of it. She would think of Nicholai. He was so good to her. He honestly wanted her to be happy after her sister's death. He had said so. He had said, 'You need to leave memories of Sophie in Paris. You can't be breaking into tears each time you pass a millenary.' Her head shot up. "I never said that."

She laid a hand on his shoulder, effectively waking him. "I never talked about her."

Groggily, he rubbed his eyes. "Someday you'll be able to."

"No, you said her name. I haven't spoken her name to anyone."

"You must have mentioned it." He was sitting up straight in bed, staring at her concernedly.

"Perhaps, but never that she worked in a millenary." His gaze fixed on her, as if trying to calculate what she was thinking. Her hand reached out to his face. "The scratch on your chin at the Masquerade…"

"_Looks like she put up quite a fight against her attacker, but just wasn't strong enough. Probably gave him a few bruises, though. A bit scratched up too, I would think." The police officer was trying to be tactful, but it wasn't his forte._

"And you were late…" She brought her hand back to her lap. "And your handkerchief was missing…"

"_They found this at the scene." The officer laid a handkerchief with red lining on the desk. "Mean anything to you?" Cecily shook her head. "Didn't think you would. Some of the guys think it might be the murder weapon. I suppose, if you held it just right."_

Cecily stood up and backed away. "Oh my God. You killed her!"

Her stood up quickly and moved toward her at the window. "Don't be silly, Cecily," he soothed.

She pushed him back. "No! You killed her! And she fought back! When I told you, you said, 'I didn't know…' I thought you meant you didn't know that I had a sister, which was part of it. You meant you didn't know that the woman you had killed before coming to the Masquerade had been my sister! You killed an innocent girl! You murdered my sister!"

Calmly, Nicholai Tchikevsky drew the drapes over the window. "Well, if you're so sure…"

---

Stacks of paper surrounded him. Some of them were torn and water stained, but most were salvageable. The mob had at least been kind in that. He had spent the better part of the time since his return trying to repair the damages they caused. The statue of Christine he had disposed of in a sort of mock funeral, drowning it, along with all his demented dreams, in the Seine. The kitchen had been a disaster. Nothing was in a good enough condition to waste the time. He walked across to the step, pushing the remaining papers out of his way. One fluttered out in front of him. It was charred badly, but still recognizable.

He knelt down and lifted it from the debris. He ran a hand over the lines he knew so well, each curve familiar to his hands. Even the wisp of her hair was painfully well-known. "She loved me," he whispered to himself. "She loved me."

The sound of someone descending by one of his secret ways caused him to hide. He slipped into a locked room and closed the door. "Erik!" The voice belonged to Giry. He didn't reply. "Erik! I know you're here!" She huffed and glared down at a stack of papers. "Fine! If your stubborn silence is more important to you than Cecily's life!"

Suddenly Erik couldn't leave the locked room fast enough. "What?"

She glared at him for a moment before her gaze softened into fear. "They've found something more in Cecily's sister's case."

"Sophie."

She looked at him suspiciously, but carried on. "They came by to see if it meant something to her, but she was gone, so they asked me…Oh God Erik!"

"Are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to pry it out of you?"

"They reexamined the handkerchief at the scene. There were initials. H.T."

"H.T.? Is that supposed to mean something?"

"Think Erik! Think! It was you who taught Cecily Russian in the first place!"

"H.T….the H symbol is similar to…Nicholai!"

"Is he in custody then?"

"No, you dolt! He's with Cecily on a train to Russia! If I know that girl, it won't take her very long to find out, and when she does," Giry shuddered.

"I'm going."

She looked at him like a proud mother. "I thought you might." She produced a paper from her pocket. "It's Cecily's itinerary, Paris to Moscow. And the bottom is the trains leaving Paris for any of the destination cities. They should be in Belgium by now. How are you going to catch up?"

Erik fixed his cape and dug a mask out from a pile of junk. Snatching the paper and fixing the hood into place, he growled, "Never question the Opera Ghost."

---

Nicholai looked at Cecily's panicked expression in the dim lamplight. "So you've figured it out. I always knew you were a brilliant girl." His eyes held hers fixed, and Cecily recognized with dread the dark passion that she knew meant murder. "I suppose the game is up then, isn't it? Can't have you running off and telling them. You know far too much."

He moved toward her, but Cecily pushed past him. He grabbed her wrist and forced her back into the corner. "No where to go, Cecily. Although I expect your sister might be happy to see you."


	67. Appearances

Erik had always hated the weather near the North Sea. It did nothing for the voice. Of course, that was the least of his problems as he boarded the train at the small station. Moving stealthily toward the cabin he had found was theirs, he listened for any sound of a struggle. Nothing. Not even the sound of two sleeping passengers, as there should have been. Fear clutched at his heart.

Picking the lock, he slipped into the cabin. Cecily was huddled on the floor, her loose hair falling pell-mell over her eyes, which were staring upward out of the window. The lights of the station were blurred by the pouring rain, but she didn't seem to notice when the train started moving. "We must make twenty stops in this tiny country," she muttered, apparently unaware of Erik's presence. There was blood running down from a cut on her head, and Erik could see several scratches on her forearms as well.

He moved up next to her. She looked at him, but her eyes were vacant and unreadable. "Where is he Cecily?" She didn't even blink. "Are you all right?"

She started to laugh, but no sentiment entered her eyes. The laugh was cold, and Erik realized that that was how he must have sounded as the Phantom. He reached out to her, but her voice startled him. "I do believe that I got the better end of the deal." She must have seen his questioning look despite her unfocused gaze because she nodded over at the bunk. Erik got up and looked at what appeared to be a bunched up quilt.

He pulled it back and found himself staring into Nicholai's panicked face. A dead face. The hair ribbon wrapped tightly around his neck had apparently been there for some time.

"Rather more difficult to strange someone than throw a knife at them, isn't it?" Her voice was ghostly and empty, much like her eyes. "I had to look him in the eye to finish it." She looked at him and smiled. Erik felt as if he had just walked into Death himself.

Erik scanned the cabin as he heard the conductor's voice calling out the impending arrival at another small station. Nicholai's trunk was pushed into a corner. Erik popped the lock and began to empty things from it, stuffing them under the bed. When it was empty, Erik moved Cecily so she was looking away. He then methodically stuffed the body into it and relocked it. "Let's go." He pulled her to her feet.

She grabbed a handbag from the small cupboard and laughed coldly again. "Everything else is at the opera house! I told them I would send for it once I got there! I told them I'd send a telegram from Moscow. We can do that can't we?"

Erik took her face in his hands. "Come on, now. We can do whatever you want once we get off the train." Making sure she understood, he bent over and lifted the trunk.

"Are you going to play porter now? Surely we can pay for a boy at the station!" There was no trace of reality in her voice, and Erik wished he could reach out to her, but the trunk was too heavy to lift a second time so quickly. She was obviously in shock.

"Come now love, we'll be fine." He moved quickly from the room, locking the door behind him and taking the key. Two more steps and they would be off the train, able to disappear, to leave behind the nightmare in the sleeping car.

She followed like a child. "What did you call me?" And they stepped out into the torrent. Neither said a word until they arrived in town, stopping at a small in. Erik left her in the care of the owner's wife, simply saying that she'd had quite a shock, and that it would probably not do well to pry too much into it. For himself, he collected the trunk from the station and disposed of its contents. He wished that the devil could die a second time for what he had done. All that Erik could do was wash his hands of the wretch, trying to leave the hatred he held for him with the body.

He entered the room slowly, making enough noise for her to know he was there. The mistress of the inn had apparently helped her change into her nightgown, and Cecily was currently wrapped up in a blanket, staring at the fire. He let his sopping wet cape fall to the ground and sat down next to her. "Cecily…"

She leaned up against him, pulling his arms around her. "Just don't leave me."

---

Cecily wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Half-asleep, she could still tell that the fire was not doing enough. And the fact that Erik was off sending a message to Paris made her feel that much colder, too. She didn't like the feeling she had whenever he left, which she had to admit hadn't been often in the past few days.

Her tired body didn't let the cold keep her awake for long. As she crossed over the border into that land where the waking world doesn't matter, he was there to greet her. Unable to do anything but follow, she found herself again on the train, in a sleeping car made up for two. And a face that she could do nothing but detest staring back at her.

Calmly, Nicholai Tchikevsky drew the drapes over the window. "Well, if you're so sure…" In the darkness that followed the action, Cecily could barely make out his expression. Suddenly terrified, she searched around for something to defend herself with. The only thing she came up with was the pillow at the head of the bed, and it was just out of reach.

Nicholai looked at Cecily's panicked expression in the dim lamplight. "So you've figured it out. I always knew you were a brilliant girl."

Cecily shook her head, trying not to believe the scene that was playing out in front of her. "You killed an innocent girl! How could you?"

He laughed and put his hand into the interior breast pocket of his jacket, his eyes never leaving hers. "Innocent," he scoffed. "Hardly. In fact, when I found her, she was quite desperate to get access to some of this." He pulled a small box out of the pocket and handed it to her.

Hands shaking, she took the box. She recognized it all too well. It was small, just big enough to hold two or three doses. Hesitating for a moment, she opened it. Sure enough, a small cloth with a bit of the stuff lay within. "You lie."

Snatching the box back out of her hands, Nicholai shook his head. "Lie? My dear, why would I tell you she was an opium eater when I could surely come up with other, better excuses? Willing to do nearly anything for it. Kept going on about how it intensified sensations and made life so much easier. Practically promised to bed me for it. She should be grateful that I ended her miserable life." Nicholai glanced at the stuff, then snapped the box shut. "Miserable drug whore she was, much like the one in London. Still, she was better than that blatant slut in Nice."

She realized with an ill feeling that all those other girls had met similar fates to her sister. She was truly dealing with a monster. Cecily's arm flew out of its own accord, but he grabbed it before it made contact, twisting it. "Now, now, now, play nice." He pushed her away, back into the corner. His eyes held hers fixed, and Cecily recognized with dread the dark passion that she knew meant murder. "I suppose the game is up then, isn't it? Can't have you running off and telling them. You know far too much."

He moved toward her, but Cecily pushed past him. He grabbed her wrist and forced her back into the corner. "No where to go, Cecily. Although I expect your sister might be happy to see you."

Desperate, she shoved all her weight into him, sending them both tumbling back onto the bed. She reached for the pillow, but, seeing her intention, Nicholai sent it flying across the car. He pushed her up against the wall, her hands pressed to the edge of the bunk, able to reach nothing but her own hair. "I promise it won't hurt a bit." He spoke sweetly, and Cecily wondered if he had lured Sophie with that same voice.

The thought gave her strength. The train rocked awkwardly, making Nicholai lose his balance and tumble backwards. On him in a moment, Cecily ripped the ribbon from her hair and pushed it down hard around his neck. One knee on each arm, her weight centered on his legs, she stared down into the panicking eyes as the tried to gasp for oxygen. She pushed harder, watching as his eyes bulged in fear and blood loss. Moments passed before he stopped trying to claw at her, and his eyes stopped blinking madly. Staying there for several more minutes, Cecily slipped down from the body, leaving everything there, and sat down in the corner. It was over.

---

_Both safe stop Moscow done stop_

It was small, but would have to do as a message to Mme. Giry for now. Erik hurried back to the inn. He hated leaving Cecily alone for any length of time after what he had seen several days before. He entered their room and took off his hat. Again, soaked with rain. Cecily grabbed his coat from him as soon as he walked in and set it near the fireplace to dry. She pointed at a small table set with bread, cheese, and water for a simple lunch. He smiled and sat down to eat.

It had been several days, and it was all Cecily could think about. Even the nightmares of Nicholai gave way to it in waking thought. She couldn't stand it anymore. "Erik, what did you call me?"

He took a bite of bread. "When?"

"On the train." He looked at her strangely, not following. "You said, 'It will be all right, love.' You called me love." She watched as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She let him squirm for the right word before asking, "Is it true?"

Erik sighed. He couldn't lie to her. She meant too much to him. "I was just stupid for not seeing it earlier."

Bending over, Cecily placed a tentative kiss on his lips. He deepened it, savoring the feel of her lips. She pulled back for a breath. "When are you going to really kiss me?" He looked slightly hurt. She leaned over and began to kiss his jaw line up to his ear. "I just mean that I want to kiss you without feeling leather," she whispered.

He pulled back and stood up, shocked. "It's too ugly! I'm too horrible…" he trailed off, staring into the fire.

She took hold of his hand and moved to be in front of him. She caught his eye. "You forget, I've seen." He flinched and turned his face away. "And there is nothing horrible or ugly about my Erik. Not his music," she brushed her lips against his neck, enjoying the shiver that ran through him. "Not his face," she moved her hand to the clip that held the mask in place and opened it. "Not his soul," in one movement, she pulled it off with one hand and pressed her cheek against the rough skin. "I love you Erik."

Erik was unable to move. All he could do was hold her and fight back the tears.

---

A/N: I did not originally intend to include the middle section of this chapter, but many reviewers asked for the reasons behind Nicholai's murder of Sophie. In an attempt to clear this up, I have included said section. If it is still confusing, please let me know.

One chapter left.


	68. The Last Letter

Cecily used her cane to push open the door as she shuffled through the letters, flinching slightly as she put weight on her bad knee. It had been bothering her something terrible of late, and the bone-biting cold of a Quebec winter did not help matters. "After five years, you'd think I'd be used to it," she muttered. "Of course, five years in the beauty of Italy does spoil one awfully in regards to the weather."

She sat in her usual spot for reading the mail, a window seat that overlooked the garden, as cold and empty as it may be during winter. Erik had planted several evergreens to make sure there was always something to look at. That was the second year in Canada, for her birthday. For a moment she just looked out at them, thinking of her husband.

Erik had taken on several students in various aspects of music: piano, violin, and of course vocal. It had made Cecily uneasy at first, the thought of Erik teaching someone to sing. She couldn't help imagining another Christine, despite her knowledge that Erik would never leave her. In the end, Erik had agreed to only take in boys, and his first vocal student had recently been hired as the lead tenor for the New York Metropolitan Opera. It had been quite the little triumph for Erik.

She could hear fingers dancing over the piano in the other room, a signal that Erik's lesson for the day was nearly over. He had a tendency to let the more advanced students pick a piece to work on at the end of every session, and it sounded as if this one was going fairly well. She smiled, recognizing the piece as one of Erik's own.

She turned back to the letters in front of her. She opened the first, postmarked France. Marie Giry informed her about the goings on of her life. She had been hired at another, smaller opera house after the closing of the Garnier. Meg had married Daniel seven years before, and they had a nice, quiet life just outside Paris. Christine and Raoul were rarely noted in the letters, usually in a side note for Cecily if at all.

A small envelope from Italy was next. After leaving the opera house with Nicholai, Cecily had only gone back once to collect her things and make a final goodbye. She had helped Erik pack up what he needed from his home, and they had not been to the opera house since. They had instead gone to see Linnea in Italy, and ended up staying five years in a nearby town. Cecily's Italian had improved considerably. Fabrizio's family had been nearly as welcoming to Cecily and Erik as they had been to Linnea, and both Cecily and Erik found themselves in a real family for the first time.

She looked up as Erik entered the room. Erik rarely wore the mask around the house anymore, and the fresh air and disappearance of the rubbing between skin and leather had caused certain parts of his face to improve. He was still afraid to leave the house without the mask, but he even let those students who came to the house see his face. Today, he was apparently exhausted, as he sunk down into the chair nearest the window and sighed. She watched him concernedly for a moment before he looked up. "What is it?"

"You're gray hairs are beginning to show," she taunted lightly.

He smiled and shook his head."Only from living with a difficult woman." He laughed at her best effort of looking put out. "What news from the world today, little cat?"

"A letter from Linnea. Gustavo, the 11 year old, is nearly completely recovered from the horse fall, and the doctor says he can take off the brace, well, last month, now that the letter has finally made it here. But Fabrizio's father passed away."

Erik put out a hand and laid it on her leg in a comforting gesture. "Shame. Guido was such a good man. And a dedicated French learner, I must say. How's the family going afterward? His wife, Katerina?"

"At the time of the letter it was fairly recent, so I wouldn't really know now. I hope she's going well." She sighed, but immediately looked back down at the next letter. "Marie wrote one too. She's doing well, but finding the girls aren't as attentive in her new job."

"If I know anything about Marie, which I do, I'm sure she'll be able to get them into shape in a little while."

Cecily laughed. "Yes, I'm quite sure of that. She also writes that Meg and Daniel have another boy. They named him Gaston Louis Alfred Leroux. Says he's a plump little jolly boy. That makes what, five children now?"

"I do believe so." He shook his head in amusement. "And the last letter?"

"Addressed to you," she said, handing him the letter. "I didn't even peek."

Erik took his time in opening it, knowing it drove his wife crazy with curiosity. "Even if you had, I'm sure it's all in English. But hold on, love, the letter will say the same thing now or later. And I'm rather hungry. How about we go out to eat and deal with this later?"

"Erik! You fiend! Open the letter! I've been itching to do it since I got the mail, but I've been good, so don't be so cruel to me!"

He went over and kissed her. "I could never be cruel to you. So dinner?"

"Erik!"

Laughing, he tore open the envelope. He had applied for a position in Juliard's School in New York, and the letter was almost sure to be a response. He scanned the letter for a moment, but didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Cecily could tell by the sparkle in his eye that it was an invitation to join the staff. He smiled and looked up at her. "So a little celebration dinner then?"

She stood up as quickly as she could, but he already had her arm and was helping her to stand by the time she threw her arms around him. "I suppose so, since I'm going to have to start packing up all the dishes now, so we can send them to New York. And we'll need to start looking for an apartment or whatever such thing is called in America. And…"

He put a finger to her lips. "All things for later. Come on now, we're going out."

He started to walk away, but she pulled on his hand. "Erik, just one thing."

"Yes?"

"Does this mean I really must learn English?"

Laughing at her troubled face, he laughed. "Of course not my dear." She eyed him carefully, having not heard the answer she was expecting. "It means that you must learn American." Running into the bedroom to avoid her playful jabs, Erik laughed loudly, a sound echoed by his wife.

---

A/N: I hope, readers, that you have enjoyed this story. I hope to someday have the time and motivation to rewrite this story, weaving it together a little more tightly, but for now it will rest as it is. If you have any suggestions concerning anything from the grammar and spelling to the flow of events, please let me know, and I will consider them in my rewrite.

Once more, I hope that this history of the Opera Ghost and a chorus girl has pleased you to read as much as it has me to record.

In one note, the reference to Gaston Leroux is of course not entirely correct. He was the first child of four to Dominique and Marie (Bidault) Leroux, if my sources are correct. The name is correct, having taken Alfred from his father's middle name. He became a renowned writer and journalist, covering events such as the Russian Revolution for the Parisian journal _Le Matin. _In English, of course, he is most well known for the 1910 novel Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, but he is also the author of the first locked room mystery novel, Le Mystère de la Chambre Jaune _(The Mystery of the Yellow Room)_ (1907).

Merci et à la prochaine fois,

S.R.


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